


A Flexible Metaphor

by pukeandcry



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Injury, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 10:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2544278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick doesn't mind being on his own; it kind of goes hand in hand with being a vampire. It's only when he has to turn Harry Styles into one too to save him from a sudden and stupid death that things start to get messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flexible Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> Very loosely based around the following summary for "Love Bites" by Lynsay Sands: "Etienne Argeneau’s three hundred years of bachelorhood were at an end. Either that, or he’d be forever alone. He could only “turn” one human in his lifetime, and most of his kind reserved that power for creating a life mate. If he turned the wrong woman … But what choice did he have? He had to save Rachel Garrett. He didn’t know her very well, but the beautiful coroner had saved his life. To save hers he would make her immortal."
> 
> Warnings for near death experiences, brief mentions of blood (in a vague, non-violent way), and some hand-wavy vampirism.
> 
> Rebloggable post [here](http://harlequin1d.tumblr.com/post/101601542738/a-flexible-metaphor-rating-mature-pairing-nick)

It’s not _lurking_. Nick is adamant about that, no matter what Aimee says -- lurking is an inherently sinister word, and there’s nothing _sinister_ about going for a bloody walk at night. People do it all the time. Insomniacs, probably, or people with dogs, or like… couriers. Nighttime couriers. Delivery people. They’re all welcome to walk around at three in the morning. It’s plain _discrimination_ that when Nick does it, just because he happens to be not entirely human, it’s suddenly nefarious.

If Aimee would just let him smoke in her bloody flat, anyway, he probably wouldn’t go for walks half as much. He’s bored of her terrace.

So that’s why at three in the morning he’s setting off down the high street -- if you can call it that -- of a tiny, squashed-up Northern village he’d never even heard of until Aimee had swooped into it and set up shop there six months ago.

He’s bored, and he’s been wanting a smoke something mad all evening. Aimee’s flat smells like cloves and claret wine and whatever else she’s been mucking around with for the last several days, some spell or another, so he’s got a craving for fresh air or nicotine or basically anything that’s not some weird sorcery he doesn’t even understand the desired outcome of. He doesn’t ask Aimee about her magic as a rule, mostly because it’s too complex for him, and she loses her temper when he doesn’t follow the arcane spellwork and accompanying hand movements that make up whatever she’s working on, and that’s when things start to explode a bit.

So he makes for the high street, collar turned up against the aimless fog, and walks in a generally northward direction until he reaches the edge of the village.

He’s never heard of Holmes Chapel before, but Aimee insists there’s a deep vein of magic that runs straight through the center of it, which is why she’d wound up there, letting a flat above the post office. It’s surprisingly large for being tucked atop a tiny one-man postal operation, but she’s got most of it filled up with her magic stuff that Nick’s scarcely allowed to look at, let alone touch. That policy rankles him a bit, since he’s ages older and probably more supernatural than _she_ is, just on a technical level, but she’s also a bit scary, so he tries not to knock over any important candles or smudge any runes written on the floorboards in black chalk.

He hadn’t really meant to move in. Ostensibly, he’d only come along to help her move her things, although he wasn’t really sure why he was needed since she could make nearly everything pop over from her old flat with a twisty little hand motion. And the stuff she said was too delicate to teleport he wasn’t allowed to touch, so mostly he’d just served as moral support.

And then after everything was settled, he just... hadn’t really left.

Anyway, he hadn’t been doing much else with his time. At least now he’s got his own corner of the flat, a strange, purposeless nook off one of the back halls. It hasn’t got a door, but there’s a tapestry strung up for an illusion of privacy, and Aimee keeps her magical wotsits clear of it.

He’s still not allowed to smoke indoors, though. Hence the walking.

 _Not_ lurking.

The problem is, there are only so many places you can walk around a village the size of Holmes Chapel before you wind up repeating yourself, which tends to make you look a bit suspicious regardless of your intentions.

So Nick’s taken to some of the hidden walking trails rather than the streets, lately, picturesque lanes that very well might cross through private property, but no one’s told him to clear out yet. He likes the woods, and the quiet, and the twistiness of the stream that runs alongside his favorite footpath until it turns into very nearly a river proper, crossing under a particularly quaint wooden footbridge. There’s never anyone about, only a few cows and sheep that don’t do much besides blink impassively at Nick when he goes by their pastures.

Except tonight, there is someone.

Nick’s first instinct, when he rounds the bend near the bridge and sees a figure doubled over the railing, is to duck behind a tree. His coat swishes when he does, and he frowns a bit; no one’s around to see except the person on the bridge, who’s not paying attention, but it had felt like a distinctly sinister, vampiric movement, ducking and swishing in a dark wood, and he hates to look a cliche.

Whoever’s there doesn’t notice, though, because they’re busy retching over the railing. The bridge is a ways up from the river at this spot, and the water level’s been low for spring, so their sick splatters noisily on the rocks below when it hits, and Nick wrinkles his nose. Humans are really rather foul, sometimes.

He waits several minutes watching the figure -- a bloke, it looks like -- carry on vomming. Nick doesn’t really fancy turning around and backtracking all the way home, so he decides to wait him out, but the bloke doesn’t seem intent on leaving anytime soon. Even once he’s finished, he stays draped over the rickety railing, his head flopped forward as he moans pathetically. He’s definitely drunk. Nick huffs out a breath through his nose; he’s rapidly losing interest in this whole affair.

He’s just about to give it up and turn around when the bloke sighs and pushes away from the railing, trying to straighten up and doing a bad job of it. He’s still all slump-shouldered, looking unsteady on his feet, but the moonlight catches on his face when he picks his head up, and Nick thinks, _oh_. The boy’s all jaw and eyes and curly hair flopped nearly to his shoulders, and even though he must be very pissed, he’s still _very_ beautiful. His face looks younger than Nick expected it to, going off how broad his shoulders are.

The next bit happens very quickly. Nick turns, glancing back over his shoulder, at the same time the boy spins around and goes to carry on across the bridge. Then there’s a shout, and Nick turns back in time to see the boy slipping on a wet patch of wood, losing his footing, and the momentum of his stumble sends him careening back into the brittle railing, which splinters with an awful snap and gives way.

The boy tumbles arse over end, nearly in slow motion, and then lands heavily on his back in the river a few meters below. There’s a sick sounding crack as his head makes contact with something solid -- Nick shudders as he thinks of the rocks, exposed more than usual for the lack of rain -- and then the boy turns over involuntarily, settling face down in the water, clearly unconscious.

There’s a terribly long pause where all Nick can hear is an owl hooting somewhere nearby. “Shit,” he says aloud to himself, just to break the awful quiet, and then before he can talk himself out of it, he’s striding over to the bank of the river.

The boy’s unconscious, and probably not far from drowning, not if he doesn’t turn over soon. He might’ve bashed his head against the rocks hard enough to do himself in that way, anyway, so Nick doesn’t stop, just thinks _shit, shit, shit_ as he fishes the boy out of the river, his fangs already coming down before they reach the bank.

He settles the boy’s body in the grass. Nick’s got no idea what he’s doing -- he’s never _done_ this part before, _shit_ \-- but he’s running on instinct. Well -- not instinct; that’s telling him to fucking scarper and get back to Aimee’s as quick as he can, but he can’t, for some reason. The boy’s bleeding out of a gash on his head, and it makes Nick’s mouth water, and -- and strangely, he doesn’t want it. He knows its there, hot and wet and red, and he doesn’t care. All he wants is for the boy to open his eyes, again, desperately and for no reason he can understand, and shit, there’s only one way he knows how to make that happen if the boy’s already dying, and he doesn’t even _really_ know, not first hand -- _you can only do this once_ , his brain is repeating a bit hysterically -- but he has to make an educated guess, because time’s running out.

Trying not to think too much about it, he yanks the boy’s arm and bites down carefully on his wrist, so gently that it doesn’t even go through on the first try. It takes on the second attempt, though, and Nick isn’t even tempted to suck, just pulls his mouth back to inspect the tear, a slow gush of blood bubbling over and down the heel of the boy’s hand. Nick blinks heavily, shocked at how it’s _not_ making him hungry, and then swaps the boy’s wrist for his own, tearing a matching gash open with less care this time.

He pauses for just an instant, their twin bloodied wrists held in one of his hands, and then shoves the boy’s against his mouth, lapping it up as quickly as he can.

The boy moans weakly at that, and Nick knows he has to finish it properly, so he holds his own wrist in front of the boy’s mouth, silently willing him to match Nick’s effort, to lap up his blood and complete the circuit.

There’s a long moment where nothing happens, and Nick feels painfully and hysterically certain that this is it, he’s murdered the boy, probably worse than the rocks or the river would have, but he keeps at it, and then --

And then something surges through him, a jolt from his toes to his scalp, bone-tingling and electric, unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s more encompassing than anything he can think of, feels more magical than any spell he’s ever seen Aimee cast, feels like it’s nearly lighting up the whole woods with the energy of it.

The boy’s mouth tenses, just by the slightest degree, so that for an instant Nick thinks he’s imagined it. But then he feels the weak flicker of the boy’s tongue against his skin and he thinks yes, _yes_. He’s done it. _They’ve_ done it.

And then it’s over. As quick as it starts, it’s gone, and Nick carefully lets both their wrists drop. The boy’s face tenses, then relaxes. His eyes open for a moment, and they’re so green Nick feels like he needs to take a step back. The boy is looking right at him, and he doesn’t seem to be in pain, or confused, or scared -- he looks like he recognizes Nick, like he’s exactly who he expected to see looming over him, bloody and terrified.

Then his eyes flutter shut again, and he goes limp, unconscious once more.

Nick carries him all the way back to Aimee’s.

-

They don’t run into anyone in the streets, which is damn good luck because Nick’s sure there’s no possible way to explain why he’s carrying an unconscious, bloodied boy bridal-style in his arms without him coming off like a psychopath or a murderer. That feels insulting, if he thinks about it long enough, because technically he’s the opposite of a murderer -- he’d saved the boy’s life. In a manner.

The flat is silent when Nick cautiously opens the door. Thank _fuck_ that Aimee’s disappeared somewhere, because if she thought his nighttime walks were sinister, he doesn’t want to know what she’d have to say about _this_.

But they’re blessedly alone, so Nick doesn’t have to worry about explaining himself, at least for the moment. Instead he tucks the boy into his bed, pulling the tapestry tight on it’s little pulley system around them as much as he can to shut out the rest of the flat. The boy’s still got a gash on the back of his head where he’d hit the rocks and he’s ghastly pale, but the wound is mending itself, now, and when Nick runs his fingers along it experimentally, carding the boy’s hair aside to get at it, it’s not bleeding anymore -- just feels like a raised scar under his fingertips.

He’s also soaking wet from falling into the river, and Nick hesitates for longer than is probably necessary before trying to pull the boy’s oversized jumper and ungodly tight jeans off. They’re both waterlogged and massively uncooperative, and Nick jostles the boy so much in the process he’s afraid he’ll wake up and find himself being stripped by a strange man, which, while not the worst or strangest part of tonight, would still hard to explain. But he stays out like a light, even as Nick eyes him primly (he decides to leave his pants on, even though they’re a bit damp as well, just in the name of propriety) and then clumsily manhandles him into a pair of his old trackies and a long-sleeved shirt.

When Nick settles him back against the pillow, it’s unsettling how much it looks like the boy could just be sleeping. His skin is still pallid and there’s a vague sheen of something unnatural about him, but if Nick squints, he could just be having a nap, hair damp from a shower, lips slack in sleep. Beneath his lids, his eyes are deathly still. He’s still breathing, though.

When there’s nothing left for Nick to do, he busies himself in the kitchen, fixing tea with hands that are shaking more than he’d like, and then rummages around in the ice chest to see how much blood he’s got on hand. Some. Not enough, probably.

He chucks two bags on the counter to thaw -- Aimee’ll have his head if she sees it, but he’s got other things to worry about at the moment -- and then, for lack of anything else to do, goes back to the boy, pulls a chair alongside the bed, and waits, watching him sleep.

-

It’s nearly dawn when he finally opens his eyes.

“Um,” Nick says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the boy says, so slowly it would be funny if the situation was very, very different. “Who are you?”

His voice is deeper than Nick was expecting, which throws him off a bit, especially since he’s not particularly steady at the moment to start with.

“Nick,” he says weakly. “And you?”

“M’Harry,” the boy says dazedly. His eyes aren’t quite focusing correctly. “What happened?”

“You, um.” Nick fiddles with the mug in his hands. “You slipped on the bridge. Fell in the river. Nearly died, but I guess I like… saved you?”

The boy -- Harry -- frowns. “Is this the hospital?”

Nick lets out a nervous little laugh. “Ah, um, no. This is my flat? It’s hard to explain, like, but--”

“I feel weird,” Harry interrupts. “Did something happen to my throat?” One hand comes up and prods weakly at his neck. “Feels -- dunno. Scratchy. Are you a doctor?” He blinks very slowly, a little out of sequence.

“No,” Nick says apologetically. “Um. So, the thing is. There wasn’t really time, right? So I had to. I mean, the only thing I could do was…” He curls his fingers nervously. Fuck, how do you explain this?

Harry just blinks at him.

“D’you know anything about vampires?” Nick asks, trying a different tact.

Harry frowns, his whole face scrunching up in confusion, and doesn’t answer.

“Because the thing is,” Nick barrels on, “I sort of. Am one of those. And, like. Now you are too?” He spreads his hands out apologetically. “It was the only way to stop you dying, like… turning you. So that’s what I did. Um. Sorry.”

Harry frowns even harder, and then, suddenly -- he laughs. It comes out weak, and it’s not particularly the reaction Nick was bracing himself for.

“Good one,” he says, and then shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. “Um, if you’re not a doctor, could you get one? I don’t feel…” He trails off, eyes blinking shut again. He tries to pry them open, but being conscious and speaking for a few moments seems to have suddenly sapped him of energy, and he lets out of a soft huff, and then his eyes stay shut, his breathing evening out.

Nick stays by him and waits some more.

-

When Harry wakes up next, he’s not laughing anymore. He jolts awake with a gasp, sitting up in bed so quickly it nearly gives Nick a heart attack. It’s mid morning, and Nick hasn’t done anything besides sit in his chair next to Harry, wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to do now. No answers have presented themselves by the time Harry jerks awake.

“Fuck, ow, _ow_ ,” he’s moaning, hands scrabbling at his throat like something invisible is choking him. “Can -- oh God, do something please,” he manages.

Nick’s ready. “Here,” he says, handing a mug to Harry with more confidence than he feels.

“What is it,” Harry ask raspily, but apparently he doesn’t care about the answer because he clutches it with both hands and drinks furiously before he’s even got the words all the way out. He downs it all in one go, thirsty, gasping noises escaping him wetly, a red trickle coming down his chin.

When he’s finished he shakily hands the mug to Nick, not looking at him, gazing unsteadily down at his own lap instead.

“More?” Nick asks.

Harry nods.

When he’s nearly finished the second full mug, he finally slows, and eventually stops with a few sips left. Shakily, he brings the mug away from his lips, letting it rest limply in his lap. There’s a smudgy red lip mark on the rim, and Nick can see the moment Harry’s eyes settle on it, putting the pieces together.

“Was that--” he croaks out. “Um. What did I just drink?”

“Ah,” Nick hedges. “Um.”

He’s pretty sure Harry knows. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to say it. He hopes, anyway.

-

Harry’s only a bit sick after that. It’s better than Nick hopes for, given what Harry’s just been through -- realizing what he’d drunk down so eagerly, and what that means, and asking Nick to please explain it all again, which he had, probably poorly. He’d had to show Harry his teeth in the end, watch him run his own tongue over his own newly-sharp canines before Harry’d really believed him, and once he had, all he’d said was “I’m going to be sick, I think.”

Nick helps him to the toilet and leaves him there once he’s folded his knees up on the tile. He figures a bit of privacy probably will go a long way at the moment.

When Harry finally comes out almost an hour later, he looks pale and a bit shaky on his feet. Nick doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just shuffles down the hall leading Harry to the lounge, where he sits down carefully on the sofa. Nick sits beside him, leaving plenty of careful distance between them, and waits until Harry’s ready.

“I have questions,” he eventually says, nervously looking down at his hands.

“I would think so,” Nick says, trying to sound mild. Harry looks unsteady, like a strong wind might knock him over, so Nick doesn’t want to startle him. “Hit me with them, I’ll try and answer.”

“Okay,” Harry says, biting his lip nervously. “Well. Can I -- can I not see my family again? My mum and my sister?”

Nick cocks his head. He hadn’t been expecting that -- he’d think the first thing you’d ask about after finding out that vampires exist and now you _are_ one would be to do with the whole, like, blood thing. “Sure you can. Why couldn’t you?”

Harry frowns. “‘Cos they’re, like, humans, and I’m… this. Isn’t it, like, dangerous for them?”

Nick blanches. “Why, d’you plan on eating your mum?”

“No!” Harry says, looking unreasonably horrified for someone who’d basically been the one to suggest it. “Jesus, no. But won’t I… I dunno, want to? In all the films…”

Nick waves his hand, sighing. “The films are rubbish. That’s the first rule of being a vampire, alright? Bollocks the films. They get it all wrong. You can actually control yourself around humans, they don’t make you go all feral just because they _could_ be food. Like, what’d you eat? Before, I mean.”

Harry shrugs, and looks a bit like he can’t remember. “Fruit, I guess? Loved a fry-up too. That doesn’t really sound good now, though.” He pulls a face.

Nick resists the urge to push his thumb against his temple, because _of course_ some eggs aren’t going to sound very appetizing anymore -- they’re not _food_ now. It’d be like Harry waking up as a human one day and trying to work up the appetite for a handful of rocks.

He tells himself to be patient, though. Harry’s quite new at this, and Nick supposes it is a bit traumatic -- to go from being a human, to a very nearly _dead_ human, to a vampire in the span of a few hours.

“Right. But, like, just because you liked a bit of bacon doesn’t mean you went out and slaughtered yourself a pig whenever you were hungry, yeah?”

Harry recoils. Nick thinks they’re really going to have to work on his squeamishness.

“I know it’s not like, a very good metaphor for unbridled lust or whatever it is humans want us to be,” Nick continues, twisting his mouth up a bit distastefully, “but you can eat what you want and not eat the rest of it. You’re not going to rip your own mum’s neck out whenever you want a snack.”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking relieved. He slumps against the back of Nick’s sofa. After a moment, though, the concerned little crease between his eyebrows returns. “What about, like, getting older? Do we… do that?”

“Really, really slowly,” Nick says. “I think it’s something like…” He tries to remember, do a bit of math in his head. “Takes something like, twenty years for us to age one in human? I think? Dunno, I forget.” He shrugs -- he tries not to think about it much. His human friends age, he mostly doesn’t, and it’s all right until he has to get new friends once that starts to be obvious.

“Right,” Harry says, eyebrows furrowing further. “So won’t my mum and everyone notice if in like, ten years, I look exactly the same? Or -- or when I’m meant to be forty and I still basically look like I’m nineteen?”

“Oh,” Nick says, chewing on the corner of his lip. “I -- I hadn’t thought about that bit.”

Harry slumps. “I can’t tell them, either, I suppose,” he says, so sadly it nearly breaks Nick’s heart. It’s a terrible feeling, really.

“You’re not supposed to, no,” Nick says. That’s an understatement, actually -- you _can’t_ tell humans, not unless you want to get sent off to Siberia for a century. A century or until everyone who’s found out because of you dies off, whichever happens first, and it’s usually the century, because humans have great big gobs.

“But -- you’ve got some time,” Nick says. “You know. Before it comes up.” A decade, maybe. Fifteen if he can convincingly pull off the _good genes and an expensive plastic surgeon_ card, which had bought Nick some time with this one bloke he was shagging in the seventies.

That’d mostly been inertia, though. He’d thought he might’ve been in love at the time, but by the time Richard had started to get suspicious, Nick was sort of looking for an out anyway. Maybe that makes him an arsehole, but there are worse things you can be, he reckons.

Anyway, it hadn’t been the same thing as marking time until you’ve got to disappear from your family and loved one’s lives forever. Not even a bit.

Harry doesn’t say anything to Nick’s platitudes, just sniffles conspicuously and scrubs too quickly at his face with the cuff of his shirt.

They were shit platitudes, so Nick reckons it’s fair.

“I don’t,” Harry starts eventually. His voice seems thicker and thinner all at once, somehow. “I dunno what I’m meant to do now.”

Nick knows the rules. He’s turned Harry -- he’s Nick’s responsibility now. There are rules. There are -- there are _implications_ , but he can’t think about that too much now, because there’s a newly undead teenager sniffling in his bed, and it’s all Nick’s fault. He suddenly feels a bit sick. He should’ve -- fuck, he doesn’t know. Not let Harry _die_ , but there has to be something else, a better option he’d have seen if he’d been a bit more clever, a bit more resourceful. But he’s not, and there’s a good chance he’s bollocksed up both of their lives for it.

 _I look after you_ , he thinks. _I take care of you. You’re mine and I’m yours and that’s it_. That’s how this is supposed to go now; they haven’t really got a choice. But he thinks Harry’s probably already feeling that sharply enough, the tug of your own future -- the one you can pick for yourself -- being yanked away, and the shape of the space it leaves behind. It’s not the worst thing possible -- being dead on the side of a bridge would be worse, for instance -- but it’s a void where there wasn’t one before anyway.

“You can stay with me,” he says instead. “If you like.”

Harry sniffles again, but eventually he nods.

-

Nick offers, later in the day, to take him home to at least pick up a change of clothes and give his mum some sort of explanation, but Harry’s adamant -- he won’t go.

“Not like -- this,” he says, glancing down at his own body uneasily. “Not until I like, figure it all out a bit better.”

It makes Nick want to wince, because he hears the fear in Harry’s voice. He’s afraid of himself, and that makes Nick’s stomach twist up, because he’s the reason Harry’s like this, now. He’s the reason Harry’s afraid to face his own mother.

“Alright,” Nick agrees quietly, and tries not to feel wretched while he finds some clothes that Harry can wear.

-

The story for his mum is that Harry’s mate had an emergency up in Manchester, and Harry’d gone up on the early train to stay with him indefinitely while it’s sorted out. Nick’s hazy on the exact type of emergency, but he supposes it doesn’t matter much. He only knows that’s the story in the first place because Harry’d borrowed Nick’s phone to call her, his own soaking wet from his tumble into the river. Plus he calls from the confines of Nick’s curtained-off room, which isn’t really the height of privacy when you get down to it. Nick had tried very hard not to eavesdrop, but it wasn’t easy, and there was something more than a bit agonizing about the low, sad sound of Harry’s voice when he’d told his mum he wasn’t sure when he’d be back. It feels appropriately self-flagellating on Nick’s end; he reckons if he’s gone ahead and ruined a boy’s life, he deserves every reminder of that fact he can get.

When it sounds like Harry’s wrapping up with his mum -- his sniffling is getting conspicuous -- Nick scampers off down the hall to the kitchen, pretending to busy himself. When Harry shuffles in a few minutes later, looking wet around the eyes, Nick’s got four mugs arranged on the table, the kettle going, and two bags of blood nearly warmed through.

“Hi,” Harry mumbles, stopping uncomfortably in the doorway.

Nick turns and forces himself to smile, trying to put Harry at ease. It comes off wrong, he can tell, but maybe it’s the effort that counts?

“Hiya,” Nick says, gesturing for him to sit. “Got tea, and, um. Lunch, I suppose?”

He finishes up and plonks all four mugs on the table, two for each of them.

“Is this going to taste good?” Harry asks skeptically, eyeing the tea.

Nick shrugs. “Not really. But, y’know. It’s not _bad_ , either, and it helps to have a taste for it. People get suspicious, otherwise.”

“Huh,” Harry says. “That’s… huh.” He takes a careful sip of it, and his eyebrows furrow perplexedly. Before he can stop himself, Nick thinks that it might be one of the most endearing expressions he’s ever seen on a human.

Or, like. Not quite a human anymore, he supposes.

“Weird,” Harry concludes. Nick doesn’t know if it is or not -- tea’s always tasted like nothing to him, just a bit musty and odd, so he hasn’t got a frame of reference for what it’s like as a human.

Wrinkling his nose up, Harry pushes the tea away and reaches for the second mug.

“I don’t know how to feel about the fact that this is somehow the more appealing of the two,” Harry mumbles.

It’s _almost_ reassuring to Nick, because so far Harry’s only experience drinking blood has been when he’s half-conscious, and Nick’s worried that it’s going to be much harder to accept when Harry’s got his faculties about him. But Harry just takes a deep breath and then lifts it to his mouth, hand steady.

“‘S’that weird too?” Nick can’t help but ask.

Harry swallows, and then nods. “Yeah. Different weird, though. Like, because it doesn’t even feel that weird? It should, right? Be weird drinking -- y’know.”

Nick reckons Harry’s going to have to learn to say _blood_ one of these days. 

“Weirder things, probably,” Nick says evasively.

“Just to clarify,” Harry says, twisting the mug around in his hands. “This is, uh. From a human, yeah?”

Nick nods.

“But no one, like… died, right?” Harry asks, the crease between his eyebrows returning.

“No,” Nick assures him. “There’s, like. A whole system sorted out for us types.” It’s got to do with blood banks, and donors and ‘unusable specimens’ that are ‘unfit for human transfusion,’ and also something with kickbacks, but it’s somehow both very cloak-and-dagger and _incredibly_ dull at the same time. All Nick really cares about is that it shows up in a portable ice chest every fortnight, no matter where he happens to be. The rest of the details aren’t terribly important to him. “Totally cruelty-free human blood, I promise.”

Now that he thinks about it, though, he’ll have to make sure he’s getting twice as much.

“Good,” Harry says. “I mean, not that -- I would understand if you had to, like. To survive, and all. But, yeah, this -- I’m, uh. I’m glad.”

Nick cocks his head at Harry. Bizarrely, he thinks he knows exactly what Harry’s trying to say.

“Well,” he says. “Thanks?”

Harry smiles tentatively, and sips his mug.

“Tell me about you,” Harry asks eventually. It’s terribly earnest.

It’s also, annoyingly, very hard to answer.

“Me?” Nick asks.

“Yeah, you,” Harry says. “We’re, like. We’re kinda stuck together now, yeah? For a bit, at least.”

Nick bites back his instinct to correct Harry -- _a bit_ isn’t quite it. But he doesn’t want to spring that on him right now, probably, so he tries to come up with something else, and maddeningly, can’t.

“Um,” he says. “I dunno. I mean. My name’s Nick Grimshaw? I grew up in Oldham?”

The fact that that’s all he can come up with is -- well, maybe something he’s going to have to examine at some point. He suddenly, desperately wants to have something cool and interesting to impress Harry with, but Harry already knows he’s a vampire, and that’s… about all Nick’s got. He suspects he shouldn’t say that the only interesting thing that’s happened to him in ages is sitting across the table from him. That sounds -- well. Pathetic.

“How’d you wind up in Holmes Chapel?” Harry asks. He’s making very direct eye contact. Nick tries to not squirm.

“Well,” Nick says. “Was living in London for a bit, and my friend Aimee -- you’ll meet her, this is her flat -- she wanted to move up here. She’s, um. A witch?”

Harry blinks hard, but other than that doesn’t react. Nick supposes the revelation that witches exist is less of a blow after you’ve already been through something like turning into a vampire in the last twenty-four hours. Good to know.

“And I guess there’s something to do with the magical -- fuck, how’d she put it.” He tries to remember. “‘Magical temperament of certain pastoral locales.’”

Harry snorts out a laugh. Nick rather likes that -- lots better than Harry’s sad-and-perplexed face scrunch. “I have no idea what that means,” Harry says.

Nick grins. “Neither do I, to be honest. I just nod when she starts in on it. You should probably, as well, when she gets back.”

Harry nods. “Noted.”

“Anyway, so, she wanted to come here, and I wasn’t… really doing much else.” That’s the understatement of the century. “So I tagged along. And here I am.”

“Here you are,” Harry agrees. “Lucky for me.”

It’s Nick’s turn to blink perplexedly. “Lucky?” he asks.

“Well, yeah, of course,” Harry says, like Nick’s being very thick. “I mean, it sounds like if you hadn’t come along, I’d be…” He trails off, and Nick doesn’t expect him to say it, but then he steels himself. “Dead. I’d be dead.” Harry reaches out very carefully and rests his hand on top of Nick’s. It’s soft, and his fingers are long and tapered, a small cross tattooed near his thumb, and Nick can’t help that it makes him a bit dizzy. “You saved my life, Nick.”

Nick thinks about saying that he’s not sure it counts. Harry’s not alive anymore. He’s not dead, but he’s not a living human either, so Nick certainly doesn’t deserve any accolades.

“And now you’re stuck in a witch’s flat with a stranger,” he says instead, trying to sound light. He must fail, if the way Harry squeezes his fingers sympathetically is anything to go by.

“Better than being fish food at the bottom of a river,” Harry says, painfully earnestly. Nick blinks very hard.

“If you say so,” he says, gently taking his hand away. He slides Harry’s half full mug towards him. “Here, finish this.”

Harry obeys, quietly sipping at it until it’s gone and then switching over to the tea again, which must be cool by now. He doesn’t finish it.

“You’ll help me, right?” Harry asks after a bit. “Like, figure all of this out. How to be… what we are. I don’t -- I don’t think I can do it on my own.”

 _You don’t have to_ , Nick thinks. _Never_.

“Of course,” he says instead.

-

Aimee doesn’t turn up for several more days. She does that, sometimes, disappear on God knows what sort of errand. Usually it makes Nick huffy because he gets bored when she isn’t around, but this time it’s perfect. It gives him and Harry some time to figure each other out, at least a bit, and also lets Nick think up how he’s going to explain a third body in a flat meant for one at best and therefore already fairly overcrowded with just the two of them. He’d set Harry up to sleep in a veritable nest of blankets and pillows on the sofa, and then wondered if he’d ought to have offered his own bed instead, but not until it felt too late. He’s still not entirely sure how long Harry’s planning to stay. Nick hopes -- well, he hopes it’ll be for a while. Probably selfishly, because if Harry goes back home it’ll mean he feels comfortable enough to do so, and that’s a good thing. But even though it does feel a bit awkward to have this newly-turned, strange, beautiful boy suddenly sharing a flat with him, asking all sorts of questions about sleeping (yes, they do it, although not as much, and no, not in coffins) and going out in direct sunlight (they’re prone to sunburns but won’t burst into flames) and of all things, bats (they can’t turn into them, honestly, where do humans even _get_ these things?), Nick doesn’t want him to go. He might feel a bit like an unprepared tutor with a student he never expected, but thinking about Harry packing up and taking his questions and overly-direct eye contact and painfully endearing _I’m thinking_ face with him is somehow a bit devastating.

While he tries to explain the ins and outs of it all, Nick learns about Harry too. He learns Harry’s twenty and his mum’s name is Anne, and she got married last year to a bloke that Harry quite likes. He has a sister in Liverpool with a degree in marketing, and he’s partway through his second consecutive gap year because he’s never been able to sort out what he wants to do next. He’d traveled around Europe after his exams, but ran out of money and come home. He’s got a best mate called Louis, as well as a Liam, a Niall, and a Zayn. They’re all scattered around now to uni and jobs and whatnot, and Harry’s desperately bored without them, but he’s got a job at a bakery that keeps him busy.

Or _did_ , Harry carefully corrects himself -- he _did_ have a job at a bakery, but he supposes he probably won’t be back, now. At least for a while.

Nick tries not to think about that bit very much. It makes him feel too guilty.

Nick learns that the night he’d found Harry, he’d been on his way back from a pub night with his coworkers and a few mates from sixth form, and he’d forgotten to eat dinner before he had six tequila shots in a row and then some. He’d got drunker than he’d meant to, and refused a cab home, deciding to try and walk it off, and Nick knows how the story goes after that, because that’s when he’d shown up.

The most revealing part of that story, actually, is how Nick learns from it that he’s deeply, instinctively protective of Harry. He’s tempted to find whoever it is who’d left Harry to walk home bladdered and alone in the sodding woods and give them a piece of his mind, since it’s so clearly irresponsible it sets Nick’s teeth on edge just thinking about it. The ferocity of his reaction is a bit startling, actually, given how Nick’s known Harry for a span of… four days, now. Four whole days.

Anyway.

He also learns other, smaller things. Like how Harry sometimes pulls his hair up into a tiny ponytail on top of his head that should look ridiculous and yet somehow doesn’t, and fidgets with the ring on his right middle finger when he’s bored or nervous. He takes ages to tell a story all the way to the end and sometimes doesn’t even make it that far, and bites his lip without seeming to realize it, and apologizes to lamps and potted plants when he walks into them, which he does with an alarming frequency.

He’s also incredibly fit and has a massive collection of tattoos, which is something Nick learns right around the time he also finds out that Harry, much like several toddlers Nick’s known in his life, can’t seem to keep his bloody clothes on.

So he can understand, in theory, just what it looks like when Aimee does finally come home and finds Nick and a strange half-naked boy on her sofa, flipping between reruns of Bake Off on the television.

“Hello, Nick,” she says, swooping into the room with one eyebrow raised. The door shuts itself behind her. “Hello, Nick’s boytoy.”

“Um,” Harry says, glancing around the room like she might’ve meant someone else. “Hi?”

Nick, meanwhile, takes a short moment to wish for death, because Aimee has her _expression_ on, and he knows this is going to turn into a _thing_. He shoves Harry’s feet off his lap -- and Jesus, when had he got them there without Nick noticing?

“Ignore her,” he tells Harry, getting up to pull Aimee by the elbow into the kitchen before she can get started. She must be feeling generous, because she stays silent until they get there.

“So you kept busy while I was gone, then,” she says once the door swings shut behind them, eyebrow raised in a far too pleased sort of way. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Nick says immediately, and then wishes he hadn’t, because that’s what everyone says when it’s _exactly_ what it looks like.

Aimee snorts disbelievingly, leaning back against the sink, arms folded across her chest. Nick doesn’t understand how she can make her point so clearly without even saying anything. Maybe it’s a witch thing.

“‘Course not,” she says. “I’m sure you just invited him over for tea out of the goodness of your heart, and his shirt just _happened_ to fall off, and--”

“His name’s Harry,” Nick interrupts.

“Okay,” she says. “So what’s _Harry_ doing here?”

“Um,” Nick hedges. “He’s kind of been staying here?”

Her expression goes thunderous, and he holds up his hands appeasingly before she can have a fit.

“It’s not -- Aimee,” he says a bit pleadingly. “He’s… I turned him. I bit him, and now he’s, like… me. He’s a vampire. He’s my...”

Aimee reacts so visibly it’d be funny in any other circumstance -- her arms flop down at her sides, her expression going all perplexedly and, awfully, a bit pitying.

“So he kind of had to stay here,” Nick explains lamely. “Can’t go home, y’know? Or won’t, at least.”

“Oh Nick,” Aimee says, looking suddenly confused and pitying and fond all at once. Those aren’t her typical reactions to anything, and Nick isn’t quite sure what to with them. “You idiot. You turned him? I mean… well. That’s good, right? That’s good news?” She doesn’t sound quite sure.

Nick laughs weakly. “Depends who you ask. He’s glad not to be dead at the bottom of a river, which is where I found him, and -- I mean, I had to, right?”

Aimee doesn’t answer, and he knows she’s thinking of the same thing he is: the times when Nick had been in similar situations -- a bloke overdosing in a club a long time ago when Nick was DJing there, or another one who’d slept over after a night of drinking and started to choke on his own sick in the middle of the night -- and both those times, he’d done precisely nothing besides call 999 and wait. They’d both lived, but he hadn’t been sure they would at the time. He could’ve turned them. He hadn’t.

He wants to make Aimee understand that this, _this_ time was different -- they’d been in the middle of the woods, and there hadn’t been _time_ to call an ambulance, but even to Nick, it sounds flimsy.

“You wouldn’t have done it otherwise,” Aimee agrees carefully. “So yeah, I guess you did. And now he’s your…”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees. “Now he’s my.”

He doesn’t say it. He can’t even think the word _mate_ without his skin going tight and uncomfortable.

“And how does he feel about that?” Aimee asks. She’s still being very, _very_ careful, and that’s putting Nick more on edge than anything, almost.

“Ah, about that,” Nick says, avoiding her eyes. “I might not have told him yet?”

“ _Nick_ ,” she squawks, her carefulness falling away as she swats at him with both her hands. “You idiot. How could you not tell him? Like, you did tell him you made him into a _vampire_ , right?” She punctuates that with a particularly hard _thwack_ against his shoulder.

“Of course!” he says, too loudly, and then lowers his voice. Harry’s just through the door. “Bit hard not to when he woke up gagging for blood.”

“Well,” she says, scowling. “You apparently left out another really fucking important part, Nick, what am I supposed to think?”

“I think you should let me handle this,” he says. He wants it to come out assured and capable, but mostly he sounds sulky.

“Fine,” she says, and doesn’t smack him again, at least. “But Nick, that’s, like. That’s a big thing. He deserves to know, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” Nick says, and that’s not a lie -- Harry _does_ need to know. It’s just that Nick needs to tell him in the right way. He’s dropped enough bombshells on Harry for now, and he can’t see how Harry would be pleased to hear this next one. So it’ll have to wait until he figures something out.

“But it’s a lot, y’know?” he tells Aimee quietly. “And I -- I mean, I know he won’t be pleased to hear it regardless, but I just want to… I dunno. Give him some time just to get used to this whole thing. Just for a bit.”

Aimee looks like she doesn’t know what to do -- smack him again or feel sorry for him -- so she settles for rummaging through the cabinets until she finds a squat purple candle in the back. She murmurs a few words Nick doesn’t catch over it and then lights it with a snap of her fingers, sets it on the table, and sits down across from him. He doesn’t ask what it’s for, if it’s just a regular candle or a magic one, but either way it calms him down a bit.

“Okay,” she says. “But you have to do it eventually, Nick, it’s not just going to go away because you don’t want to deal with it.”

“I know,” he says miserably. He does. “Just try not to scare him in the meantime, alright?”

Amy scoffs. “I’m not scary.”

Nick can’t help rolling his eyes. “You _summoned_ something not two weeks ago.”

She shrugs. “It was nice for a wind spirit, though. You liked it.”

Nick hadn’t, but he doesn’t suppose she’ll listen to him.

“Please,” he says instead. “I don’t want to muck this up, okay? So just try to be nice and not send him running for the hills.”

She stares at him consideringly for a long moment, and then nods.

“Alright, then,” she says, scraping her chair back and offering a hand to Nick. She’s bizarrely strong, and hoists him up with enough force that it hurts a bit.

When they go back through to the lounge, Harry’s apparently found a shirt to put on -- one of Nick’s, of course, Christ -- and he’s perched on the edge of the sofa a bit awkwardly, like he’s unsure if he should stand or not. He looks nervous, which is unusual on him -- he’d made himself perfectly at home up until now, when it was just him and Nick.

But now Aimee’s there, peering at Harry a bit more closely than is maybe polite, and he seems suddenly wrong-footed.

“So you’re Harry,” Aimee says, gliding over to him and sitting down on the armchair, keeping up her unsettlingly direct eye contact.

“I am,” Harry says, still nervous, but then he smiles at her, dimpled and a bit uneven, and Nick can see the moment Aimee melts, just a little.

It looks startlingly familiar; he wonders if that’s how he’d looked the first time Harry’d smiled at him too.

-

Aimee gives them space, which is so unlike Aimee that it throws Nick off. She’s chronically incapable of minding her own business, so when Nick notices that she’s making an effort to be out of the flat -- or at least out of the room -- when he and Harry are around, it feels disorienting.

And the thing is, him and Harry are _always_ around. Harry doesn’t want to leave the flat, afraid to run into someone he knows, and Nick doesn’t want to leave him, so they just stay in. They eat, and they watch television, and Harry borrows Nick’s laptop a few times, although he doesn’t say what he’s doing on it. It’s not _bad_ , but it is a bit claustrophobic, especially when he considers the fact that Harry is essentially a stranger. Well, maybe not a stranger -- it’s been almost two weeks by now since Nick turned him, but in the grand scheme of it all, that’s barely anything.

Harry takes as well to the blood thing as can be expected. He has a minor meltdown the first time he sees Nick warming one of the blood bags, going pale around the edges and retreating into the toilet for a long time. Not that you can ever particularly compare it to, like, a nice cuppa or anything -- blood is blood -- but Nick supposes there’s a fair difference between taking it from a mug and actually having to rip open a hermetically-sealed medical bag yourself. It’s automatic for Nick, and it’s hard to remember that for Harry this is all freshly new.

Harry has a tantrum, once, when he wants a banana and then hates it when Nick goes and brings him one. Nick can’t _relate_ , but he sympathizes anyway and lets Harry stomp off to the lounge and commandeer the television for the rest of the day, mourning all his lost fruit and veg in private.

Nick also suspects he can tell when Harry’s thinking about his mum, because that’s when he goes all quiet and watery around the eyes, but Nick doesn’t know how to ask about it, and Harry doesn’t offer. He strikes Nick as the sort to take things in stride, and maybe he’s trying hard to take this in stride too. He still won’t discuss going home to see her, shaking his head and telling Nick he’s _not ready_.

Other than that, though, he’s generally pretty agreeable about the whole thing. The worst bit, as far as Nick can tell, is the cabin fever, which is starting to set in on him, just a bit.

At the fortnight mark, he thinks Harry’s probably getting restless as well. He and Nick are in their adopted spots on either end of the sofa, making their way through one of the late -- and shit -- seasons of E.R. It’s not particularly holding Nick’s attention, but not much does, so he’s mostly looking out the window, fiddling with his phone and occasionally poking Harry in the ribs. Harry’s staring intently at the television, but he doesn’t seem to be absorbing anything. He’s fidgety and won’t sit still, and it’s making Nick feel slightly on edge.

Maybe -- _maybe_ if he approaches it very carefully, he can convince Harry to take a walk with him tonight. It’s not healthy to be cooped up in one flat for two bloody weeks. He knows Harry doesn’t want to run into anyone he knows, but they’ve got to do _something_.

“When you were in London,” Harry asks, out of nowhere, eyes still trained on the show, “what’d you do?”

Nick puzzles. “What d’you mean?”

Harry rustles around. “I dunno. Like, d’you work? What do you do for fun?”

“Well,” Nick says slowly, suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t really work. There’s, like. Family money.” It makes him want to wince a bit, and frankly, that’s the easier of Harry’s questions. This isn’t a conversation Nick wants to have. “Why do you ask?” he says evasively.

“Just wondering. And it’s just that, y’know. If you -- if _we_ live for so long, it seems like that’s a lot of time to fill up, right? But also kind of cool, isn’t it? We can do, like… everything.”

He sounds almost optimistic at the prospect, but Nick’s stomach is starting to churn. He swallows hard, squinting at Noah Wylie on screen. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it,” he says. He really wants Harry to drop it.

He must not be picking up on Nick’s discomfort, though, because Harry presses on. “So what d’you _do_?”

“Uh.” Nick picks at a loose thread on the blanket thrown over the arm of the sofa. “Dunno. See friends. Go out sometimes.” He pauses, and thinks. “I used to DJ a bit, a while ago. It wasn’t much, I mean, but I kind of fancied I might be on the radio? It’s stupid. Thought I might make of a go of it for a while, though.”

Harry finally turns to face Nick, then, turning all the focus of his attention from the dramatics of E.R. to Nick, which is the opposite of what Nick wanted.

“Why’d you stop?”

Nick shrugs exaggeratedly. “It -- I was doing, like, club nights, parties and stuff, but, like.” He wants to lie, say he just lost interest or something, but Harry is really hard to lie to, it turns out. Especially when he’s pointing his face directly at Nick, all earnest and open and sweet.

Nick runs his tongue over his teeth idly, and sighs. “The problem was, people started to like… know who I was.” That makes him sound like a prat even worse than _family money_ , but whatever. They’re both the truth. “I mean, I wasn’t, like, _famous_ properly, but people sort of… they recognized me, sometimes, and that was dangerous.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

“‘Cos, like. Had to disappear eventually, didn’t I? Can’t ever stay still or people will figure out something’s wrong with all…. this,” he says, gesturing at his face, letting his teeth go pointy for a moment. It strikes him how stupid it is, just for an instant, that he’s got fangs and yet barely ever uses them. Maybe they’ll phase out, eventually, a vestigial evolutionary loss for vampires around the world.

“So. Would’ve been too hard, if too many people knew me. So I just… stopped.” He turns his hands up, shrugging a bit, hoping Harry lets it lie there.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but his brow is furrowed as he looks at Nick, twisting up his mouth in an unhappy sort of way.

“That’s shit,” he says eventually. “Don’t you miss it?”

“Sometimes,” Nick admits. Not usually, but only because he doesn’t let himself.

“There’s probably some way, though,” Harry says slowly, “that you could do it again. If you liked it, I mean. Right? I bet we could figure something out. If we--”

Nick reaches over and puts his hand over Harry’s mouth. He doesn’t mean to, it just sort of happens. Harry’s mouth feels warm.

“Haz,” he says, trying to sound sympathetic and understand instead of pathetic. “I appreciate it, but no. That’s done now. It’s okay.”

It’s not, really -- he’d _loved_ it, and he hadn’t felt useless when he’d been doing it, but talking about it isn’t going to make it any better, so. Best just to let it go. Sleeping dogs and all that.

Harry mumbles unhappily and frowns a bit behind Nick’s hand, but then licks his palm like a puppy, and Nick has to pull it back and wipe it off exaggeratedly on his jeans. “Eurgh,” he complains, not minding at all.

Harry grins, then, and Nick thwacks him with a pillow, and they finish watching the episode without event. It’s only after Nick’s left Harry on his couch-bed and retreated behind his own curtain for the evening that he lets himself prod at the tender, sore feeling in his chest that Harry’d inadvertently opened up.

He knows, is the thing, that he’s a bit pathetic. He _knows_ there’s not an answer to the question of what he _does_ all day that isn’t going to reveal that; he’s been aimless for a long time, drifting around, probably drinking a bit too much, collecting interesting people until he inevitably has to let them go and then starting all over again.

He can ignore it well enough when it’s just him. But Harry’d _asked_ , and he’s so _earnest_ , and now he’s going to be stuck with Nick, who feels particularly old and useless all of a sudden, for a long time. It smarts.

Harry deserves better than that. Nick’s not sure of much, but he’s sure of that, and the thought pings wildly around in his brain like a pinball until eventually he drifts off to sleep.

-

The feeling of restlessness gets worse over the next few days. Nick forgets to suggest a walk, and then when he does remember, Harry’s already somehow gotten roped into helping Aimee with… something. Nick’s not clear what, but it apparently requires Harry to hold a bowl of something shimmering and silver in the middle of their kitchen while standing very still. There are little whorls of colorful smoke appearing in the air between Harry and Aimee; Harry seems to be taking it all in stride.

Nick leaves them to it, and retreats to his corner to read, where he ends up taking a nap.

They burn through so much television that Nick thinks his eyeballs might actually fall out of his head. Harry bakes a few times, with supplies he sends Aimee out to buy, but then gets sulky when Aimee’s the only one in the flat who can enjoy what he makes. Nick catches him staring consideringly at a blood bag and a box of confectioner’s sugar at the same time, and steers Harry back into the lounge for a marathon of The Simpsons before he does anything stupid like try to make blood-flavored pastry.

So, yeah. Restless.

It certainly doesn’t help that Harry still won’t put a shirt on. Nick knows there are bigger concerns at hand -- Harry’s enormous lifestyle change, for instance -- but the constant nudity it starting to become an issue. He’s already got enough to sort out about Harry without being confronted with how absolutely fit he is, all taut stomach, broad shoulders, and surprisingly big arms. He’s got narrow little hips, though, and Nick can’t help thinking about how his hands would fit against them.

All of that on top of Harry’s _face_ , which is unreasonably pretty, and the way he smiles and laughs at Nick’s jokes and tips his head back to drink sometimes, exposing the long line of his neck -- it’s getting to be a lot.

“Are you not freezing?” he asks Harry one afternoon. He’s lounging around in nothing but his pants, legs sprawled over the edge of the sofa while he plays some noisy, bright game on his phone. Aimee had done a bit of magic to get it dried out after Harry’s unexpected trip into the river, and it works like a charm now, although sometimes does let out colorful sparks without any warning.

“No,” Harry says, grinning at him in a very unapologetic way before going back to his game. “Anyway, isn’t it a vampire thing? Not getting cold?”

Nick scowls, because maybe it _is_ a vampire thing -- they’re made of heartier stock than humans, sure -- but that doesn’t mean Harry _needs_ to be lying around mostly naked just because he _can_.

“Well, yeah, most of us still manage to keep our clothes _on_ like normal people,” Nick says. “You realize ‘it’s alright, I’m a vampire’ won’t get you off the hook if you’re arrested for public indecency, right?”

Harry smirks. “I’m not _in_ public. It’s just you. Anyway, never really liked wearing clothes in the first place. Just taking advantage, now.”

Nick thinks that’s information he probably could have done with having _before_ turning Harry, but perhaps that’s neither here nor there.

“You’re a feral child,” he says weakly, and Harry shrugs.

“Do _you_ want me to put a shirt on?” he asks, apparently unperturbed by the question. He doesn’t even stop playing his game, even though he’s looking at Nick instead of the screen.

“I want you to be comfortable as a houseguest, Harold,” Nick says a bit primly. “But we’re going to have to go outside eventually, so don’t get used to it, is all.”

He wonders, for a second, if he maybe shouldn’t have mentioned venturing outside, because they still haven’t managed that, Harry still unwilling to risk running into someone he knows. It feels inevitable, though -- holing up in Aimee’s flat is not a long-term solution. They’ve got to figure something else out, eventually, but Harry hasn’t really made any mention of it yet, so Nick’s just been following his lead. Maybe acknowledging the outside world as something to inevitably be dealt with will make Harry go all sad and wobbly around the eyes again.

But Harry just smiles serenely at him, says “Okay,” and goes back to his game, scratching idly at his bare stomach with a thumb.

Nick swallows heavily.

-

Harry clings to him all through the film they watch that night -- a scary one, although not about vampires, Nick’s got a _policy_ about that. Nick’s not sure Harry is _actually_ scared by the prospect of a ghost that’s trapped in the plumbing system of someone’s house, but he’d crawled halfway into Nick’s lap less than a half hour in either way. He’s _very_ warm, and he puts his hands in the pockets of Nick’s sweatshirt. Nick’s not sure why that’s making his pulse race, but there it is.

Halfway through, Harry shifts, and somehow they end up in a weird tangle where Harry’s legs are sprawled and Nick’s set between them, Harry clinging on like a koala. On screen, the ghost girl pops out of a faucet, and Harry yelps and buries his face into Nick’s neck.

Frankly, if the ghost started suddenly doing a tap dancing musical number, Nick’s not sure he would notice, because Harry’s literally _straddling him_ , his groin pressed against Nick’s hip. It’s not _sexual_ , it’s not like Harry’s _hard_ , but it’s -- it’s confusing. Nick holds very still, afraid that if he lets his concentration drop his body is going to start doing something without his permission like shifting against Harry’s.

By the time the film is over, he’s managed to avoid getting hard, but only through a series of very focused thought exercises and one strategic retreat to the kitchen where he sticks his face briefly under the cold faucet. It’s a good thing he does, because when he returns, Harry pulls him right back where he’d been, this time carding his fingers through Nick’s hair.

All in all, he’s proud and more than a bit surprised to come out the other end of the movie without his dick making a scene.

“That was terrifying,” Harry says with a yawn once they turn the lights back up, already peeling his shirt off and settling back in his cushion-bed.

“Sure,” Nick agrees. He can’t remember a single thing about the movie, but, well. Harry’s not wrong. “You all set? I’m going to shower and sleep.” He hopes his voice sounds normal. Harry’s sprawled out on his back, wriggling around like a puppy trying to get comfortable. Nick wants to lick him.

“‘M’good,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his face into a pillow a bit. “See you in the morning?”

“‘Course,” Nicks says, swallowing heavily and ignoring the way Harry’s hand is resting gently on the waistband of his joggers.

-

Technically -- _technically_ , Nick’s a monster. He doesn’t really believe that, but just from a practical standpoint, if you ask an average person if a vampire counts as a monster, they’d say yes.

That’s how he justifies it when he finds himself in the shower ten minutes later with his hand on his cock, trying to stay silent as the grave as he jerks himself on just this side of too hard, picturing the way Harry’s looked flopped out before him, pale and tattooed and too beautiful for anyone’s good.

Harry’s just down the hall. The walls are thin as anything, and vampires have very good hearing, and if Nick tried, he could _probably_ strain and hear the sounds of Harry getting settled in bed, shuffling around, exhaling through his nose as his breathing evens out.

On the other hand, that means that Harry could probably do the same, and he’d hear Nick’s ragged breathing, the wet slide of his fist on his dick, the little noises he’s not quite managing to keep in.

Horrifically, that’s the thought that pushes him over the edge, coming with a hand braced on the tile in front of him -- Harry, listening in, _overhearing_. Maybe getting hard himself, squirming on the sofa, palming himself through the front of his borrowed joggers.

Nick knows that’s deranged and awful, probably, but. He’s a monster.

He’s allowed, sometimes.

He stands there under the spray for a long time, waiting for his breathing to settle. When he finally heads to his curtained-off nook, he can see one lamp still on in the lounge down the hall, but he ignores it, crawling into his own bed and willing himself to sleep.

-

Nick must manage, because the next thing he knows there’s a rustling from the curtain by his bed waking him up, and by the time he pries his eyes open, he sees Harry slipping through, lit up in the moonlight from the window in the hall.

“Hi,” Harry whispers. He sounds very small in the dark.

For a second, Nick wonders if this is one of those dreams he used to have sometimes when he was younger -- the kind where fit blokes find out he’s been wanking thinking about them and appear in his home to shout at him for it -- but the more time elapses, the surer he is that Harry’s really there, shirtless and a bit knock-kneed at the foot of his bed.

Then Harry shuffles forward, tentatively reaching for the edge of Nick’s duvet, giving Nick time to stop him if he wants.

Maybe this is a different sort of dream, then.

But it’s not, because Harry climbs uncoordinatedly into Nick’s bed when he doesn’t stop him and he’s definitely real and solid. He keeps his distance for a tense half-second, like he’s waiting for Nick to kick him out, but then he relaxes, squirms closer and wraps his limbs around Nick like an octopus. He tucks his face against Nick’s collarbone, and exhales heavily.

“Hello,” Nick says, confused but not necessarily unhappy with what’s happening.

“Sorry,” Harry whispers into his neck. He’s very warm, and a curl of his hair is trying to make its way into Nick’s mouth. “Your couch is lonely, sometimes.”

“Then it’ll feel even worse now you’ve abandoned it,” Nick says, and Harry snorts.

“You know what I mean,” he says against Nick’s shirt.

“Sure,” Nick says quietly. He wraps an arm around Harry carefully, and they lie there for a bit, Harry breathing warm against him. Nick’s hand drops to stroke carefully at Harry’s back; it feels very tense, like he can’t unknot himself all the way.

“I’m scared, a little,” Harry says after a long time, very soft, without looking up at Nick. “I mean, I’m glad you found me, it’s not that, but -- it’s all a big change, y’know?”

Nick nods carefully. He’s almost relieved to hear Harry say it, in a funny way -- turning into a vampire is a big thing. It’s good that Harry knows it’s something to be a little worried about.

“It’s scary,” Harry repeats. “But, like. Also not so scary, because I’m not alone, d’you know?”

Nick hums into his hair, because he _doesn’t_ , not really. He’s been more terrified than ever since Harry turned up.

But -- also a lot less lonely, as well. It’s not perfect, it’s a mucked up situation to be sure, but -- but he _likes_ Harry, an awful lot, and even though he can’t imagine why Harry’s glad at all to be stuck here with him, he’s grateful for it in a reflexive sort of way.

“Glad I’m here,” Harry repeats, and Nick smiles weakly into the dark.

“Me too,” he says, and means it.

-

It’s a snap decision to go to London, but as soon as Nick makes it, he feels settled, at least a bit. It’s just that he’s started to feel a bit frantic in Aimee’s flat, and Harry still won’t put on a shirt or go outdoors and suddenly it feels very, very important to do _something_.

So he books them two train tickets and tells Harry that there’s a party he has to go to -- there isn’t, but Nick can probably scrounge something up that seems plausible once they’re there -- and that Harry’s coming with.

“Oh,” Harry shrugs, accepting as anything. “Okay. Sure.”

The ease with which he goes along with Nick’s plan without questioning it makes Nick feel a bit mad.

Harry _still_ won’t go back to his house and risk seeing his mum -- although he’s texted her, at least, so she “doesn’t think he’s dead,” which is a joke that Nick thinks is a lot less funny than Harry does -- so the bag he packs is entirely full of Nick’s clothes.

That makes him feel a bit mad, too, but he supposes they’ll have to deal with it.

Maybe in London he can buy Harry a new wardrobe. It’d be a worthwhile investment so he could stop having tiny coronaries every time Harry appears in one of Nick’s worn-out t-shirts stretched too wide around the collar like it’s always belonged to him.

-

On the train, Harry’s like a dog on its first car ride -- he keeps looking around like he’s trying to see everything at once, staring out the window, running his hands over the armrests of their seats. Nick supposes it’s probably just the thrill of being out of Aimee’s cramped flat for the first time in practically forever, but he half expects Harry to start panting in excitement as they approach King’s Cross.

When Nick lets them into his flat, Harry does a full circle twice trying to look at everything, and Nick is nearly tempted to tell him to _sit_ , because he’s going to make himself sick if he keeps twirling like that.

“You live here?” Harry asks, seeming a bit dazzled.

Nick shrugs. “Sometimes.” He tries to see his flat through Harry’s eyes. It’s nice, he’ll admit, he’s too house proud not to, but sometimes he forgets it. Mostly what he notices is the closed-up way it smells, and how he left a mess of papers and mail strewn across the kitchen table before he left on a whim to stay with Aimee.

Harry doesn’t seem to notice that, though. He’s walking through it carefully, grazing his fingertips appreciatively over the side table in the hall that Nick got in a junk store in Brick Lane and gazing up at the light fixture in the lounge with all the little glass baubles that sends shards of light dancing around the ceiling.

“This is really great, Nick,” he says, rubbing the corner of Nick’s framed butterflies with the edge of his thumb.

Nick just shrugs again, but can’t help but preen under the praise.

“And you can even sleep in a proper bed instead of on Aimee’s sofa,” Nick offers.

Harry tilts his head at him at that, doing something funny with his eyebrows, and Nick tries not to squirm. “In the guest room,” he clarifies, nodding down the hall.

“Great,” Harry says, his face staying the same, curious and a bit amused.

Nick bustles Harry off down the hall, telling him to get settled and have a shower if he wants. Once he’s safely behind closed doors, Nick sits down on his own half-made bed for a long time, gazing distractedly into his closet with his phone in his hands.

He means to straighten up around his bedroom, but he mostly falls asleep on top of his duvet, and when he wakes an hour later he feels groggy and a bit sweaty, so he decides to skip it and stands under the shower for a half hour instead. When he starts to think about Harry down the hall, he bangs his forehead on the tile none too gently and forces himself to get out. The texts he sends out to his London mates are a bit manic, because he’d promised Harry a party, and also, the thought of being alone with Harry in the flat -- _Nick’s own flat_ , not Aimee’s -- suddenly feels out of the question.

By the time he’s managed to get himself into clean-ish clothes, he’s wormed his way into at least two sets of plans for the night, and goes off the find Harry.

He’s in the lounge, sprawled on Nick’s sofa, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table. He smiles with his whole face when he notices Nick come in.

He’s also not wearing a shirt, _again_. Just a pair of Nick’s skinny black jeans that fit a bit wonky around the waist.

Nick swallows hard.

“You’re going to have to get dressed eventually, y’know,” Nick says as he steps carefully over Harry’s legs to sit beside him.

“For what?”

“Getting drinks with some mates tonight, if you’d like. Gonna be fun.” Nick hopes. He’s been gone from London for a bit now, and shit about responding to texts -- there’s a good chance he’ll be shouted at for a good while for falling off the radar again. Luckily his friends have short memories when they’re pissed.

Harry rolls off the sofa to put some clothes, eventually, although they’re still _Nick’s_ clothes, which is beginning to feel like it’s not much of an improvement over none at all. It puts Nick in mind of something entirely too domestic and mundane and therefore impossible, but still: a flat, a shared closet, a fit boy in his clothes. He tries to shake the idea out of his head.

As they’re about to leave, Harry’s wandering the flat again, like he’s trying to memorize every little knickknack and detail of Nick’s possessions by touch. Nick’s just trying to yank his boots on without falling over.

“Why would you leave all this for Holmes Chapel?” Harry marvels, tapping his nails gently against the glass door that leads through to the garden.

Nick shrugs, and scuffs his foot against the floor once he gets his boot on. “Change of scenery.”

Harry doesn’t press it, and then they’re rushing out the door to catch a cab and meet Pixie and Collette and a bunch of others at bar in Covent Garden. It takes Nick three rounds of drinks pressed between Gells and Harry in a booth before he forgets the look on Harry’s face as he’d looked around at Nick’s life, apparently finding it something worth seeing and keeping.

-

They’re both more than just a bit pissed when they stumble back into Nick’s flat. Harry’s an uncoordinated drunk, which is hardly surprising, given the circumstance of their meeting, but it’s much more endearing when he’s only tripping over his own feet and steadying himself on Nick’s elbow than when he’s nearly drowning.

“I like your friends,” he’s telling Nick for the tenth time. “They’re all -- they’re _cool_ , and they’re funny. I like them.”

“Me too,” Nick says agreeably as he gets the door shut behind them and herds Harry into the kitchen. He’ll want to eat, probably, help stave off the hangover. They’re not nearly as bad for vampires as they are for humans, Nick’s been made to understand, but he’s delicate and old; if he can avoid a headache in the morning, he’s all about it.

He gets them both a cuppa, and they sit at the kitchen table, Harry kicking his feet against the legs of his chair and slurping away.

“Are you sad that you’ll have to leave them eventually?” Harry asks, guileless as anything. It nearly knocks Nick over.

“Yes,” he admits. He’s not used to this kind of openness, not at all, not even after a month of Harry Styles, the world’s widest-open book of emotions, but also, Harry is really hard to lie to. “Really sad.”

As soon as he admits it he wishes he had lied, because Harry makes a wounded face at him, like he’s somehow responsible for Nick’s lot in life, and rests his hand on Nick’s wrist for a moment. Nick feels even worse for making him look so sad.

“It’s just the way it is, though,” he adds, hoping it sounds reassuring, somehow. “Always new friends to make. And I’ve got a while.”

Harry’s brow furrows, but he nods slowly even if he doesn’t look like he’s convinced.

“Anyway,” Nick says, draining the last of his mug and standing, taking it to the sink. “Gonna sleep now, I think.”

Harry bumbles to his feet, swaying a bit as he hands his mug over. He’s still frowning, but tries to smile through it as Nick clasps him awkwardly on the shoulder and then heads for his room.

When he gets to the door, though, the knob sticks, and that gives Harry enough time to stumble after him and put one warm hand on Nick’s hip.

“Nick,” he mumbles as Nick finally nudges the door open. They tumble in a bit, and Nick puts a hand back to steady Harry. That’s two points they’re touching, now; Harry’s hand on Nick’s hip, and Nick’s hand on Harry’s forearm.

When Nick turns, Harry’s right there. He smells like cigarette smoke and whiskey and cologne that he must’ve borrowed from Nick, and it all makes Nick’s stomach twist.

Harry’s hands settle gently on Nick’s hips, and he’s so _close_. “I just,” he starts, but then he shakes his head an inch and leans in, pressing his lips softly and a bit off-centered against Nick’s.

If Nick were better, he wouldn’t kiss back. He wouldn’t let his hands slide up Harry’s bare forearms, over his scattered tattoos and his warm skin. He wouldn’t let himself pretend this is something he can have, no matter how much he might want it, because Harry doesn’t have the whole story, and he’ll probably hate Nick once he does.

He’s not better, though, so he opens his mouth and lets Harry kiss him, and tries not to hate himself.

It’s only when Harry’s mouth starts to get sloppier, his tongue slick and little breathy noises escaping him, and then his hands twitching nervously as they move for Nick’s belt, that Nick finally manages to pull away.

Harry frowns at him as Nick shifts back, all over a wounded puppy. Nick’s instinct is to apologize, to start kissing him again, but he also knows from experience that his instincts are shit, so he stays where he is.

“We’re pissed,” Nick says apologetically, cradling Harry’s chin in his hands like he’s something breakable.

“Are we?” Harry asks, voice low. He’s still got his hands on Nick’s trousers.

“Yeah, love,” Nick says, gently removing Harry’s hands and taking another step back, putting as much space between them as he can bear. “We are.”

“But,” Harry starts. He sounds very small, a bit unsure for the first time. It only makes Nick feel worse.

“We’re pissed,” Nick repeats. “Go to bed, yeah? I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Nick,” Harry says, and the sound of his own name almost makes Nick crumble, plaster himself against this strange beautiful boy who for some reason _wants_ him.

What he knows of him, at least.

“G’night, love,” Nick says as quietly as he can manage, and then shuts the door, alone again.

-

Nick stays in bed as long as he dares the next morning, trying to find the balance between delaying the inevitable for as long as possible without seeming like he’s doing just that, but eventually he knows he has to go face it all and slouches out to the lounge.

“Hiya,” Harry says. He’s smiling, and he’s fully dressed in a loose shirt and Nick’s joggers, but there’s something unsure in his expression, like he’s waiting for Nick to deliver a blow.

“Breakfast, if you want,” Harry adds, nodding at two enormous coffee mugs. He must’ve found the blood bags in the back of Nick’s freezer, and the idea -- Harry rummaging around for mugs, heating up the blood for them both in Nick’s flat like it’s the most normal thing in the world -- makes Nick’s chest pang in a way that he can’t decide if it’s good or bad.

“Thanks, love,” he says, trying to sound easy. He doesn’t want to do the whole _we should talk_ thing, but maybe Harry thinks that’s coming. If he tries to sound easy enough, maybe they can avoid the whole thing.

-

They go out again that night, the same lot from the night before in a new club, one that’s loud and a bit silly, which is good enough for Nick. Harry sits at the center of their booth when he’s not out dancing wildly enough to put someone’s eye out with a stray elbow, the rest of Nick’s mates gathered around him as he drinks more and laughs and goes prettily flushed the warmer he gets.

They all love Harry, evidently, Pixie and Alexa and Henry and literally everyone else they run across, because why wouldn’t they? He’s magnetic; he’s got something about him that keeps it hard to keep your eyes from pinging back to him every few minutes.

Only when Nick looks, Harry always seems to know, like he can sense it, because within seconds he’s glancing over at Nick, smiling softly even if he’s in the middle of a shit joke or meandering story.

It makes Nick feel lovely and special and just a bit sick. He probably drinks too much as a result.

They cab home again, and Harry is loose and pliant and happy and talking again about how much he loves Nick’s friends, and London, and the drinks with the slices of pineapple in them, and everything else in the world, apparently.

Nick smiles and nods, and realizes he’s really, truly fucked.

At least this time when they get back to Nick’s flat, Harry just wraps Nick into a bone-crushing hug and then retreats to the guest room without trying to kiss him again. Nick tells himself that’s a good thing.

-

They’re in London for all of a week. They haven’t got any particular plans, so they go out and drink more, and Nick drags Harry around to museums and antique shops and they choke down a brunch with Collette, which has Harry making faces that Nick tries not to find hopelessly endearing. He’s got less practice pretending to like eggs as a vampire, Nick supposes, but the knowledge doesn’t do anything to stop him grinning stupidly when Harry tries to surreptitiously spit a mouthful into a napkin while Collette’s in the toilets.

Everyone comes round on Sunday and stay for several hours, and then suddenly all clear out en masse around six, leaving just Harry and Nick sitting together in the back garden. Nick goes back inside to fetch them jumpers and two mugs of blood, and when he brings them back, Harry tips his head up at him to smile appreciatively, the setting sun catching on the angles of his face in a way that makes Nick’s breath catch.

“I think I’m ready to go back,” Harry says eventually, sipping his mug. “I mean, if you are too.”

Nick raises his eyebrows at him. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah. Got a text from a friend of mine, Louis? He’s going to be in town in a few days and he says he’ll murder me if I don’t get a pint with him. I kind of, um. Haven’t talked to him since… y’know.”

“Why not?” Nick asks. “Aimee fixed your phone.”

“I know,” Harry says slowly, squinting across the garden. “Just… didn’t seem right. Was getting adjusted, I guess? And, I dunno.” He shifts uncomfortably.

“What?” Nick asks.

“Maybe it’ll be easier,” Harry says. “To, like. I dunno. When I can’t see him anymore, or any of them. To just sort of… let it go now, a bit. Sort of fade out.”

Nick unfolds his legs from underneath himself. “Don’t,” he says firmly. “Don’t do that.”

Harry twists up his face. “Why not, though? I mean, it’s inevitable, right?”

“Right,” Nick says. “So have it now while you can, before it has to go away. Trust me, alright?”

“Hm.” Harry doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but he doesn’t argue. “Anyway, I told him we’d come ‘round the pub with him when he’s back, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“We?”

“Yeah, _we_ ,” Harry says. “You and me. Bring Aimee too, if you like. But I reckon he should probably meet you, yeah? Since you’re, y’know. Kind of an important person in my life now.”

He smiles at Nick, and Nick tries not to turn towards it like a flower towards the sun.

“Well,” he says. “If you like.”

Harry nods. After a long moment he clears his throat. “And I should probably see my mum eventually, too, right?” He waits, like he genuinely wants Nick’s answer.

“If you’re ready,” Nick says carefully. It’s gentler than _yes, you prat, go see your mother who loves you and is probably having a coronary over you right now_ , which is what he’s thinking.

“Maybe not straight away,” Harry says. “But soon. It’s… I mean. I can’t hide forever, right?”

Again, he sounds like he’s honestly asking Nick. If he thinks about it too long, it’s almost heartbreaking, Harry looking to him for answers. Nick hasn’t got any idea what he’s doing most of the time, and Harry deserves better guidance than that.

“You shouldn’t hide at all, love,” Nick says, reaching over the arm of his chair to rest his hand carefully on Harry’s. It’s the best he can come up with, but he means it.

-

The first thing Louis does when he arrives at the local in Holmes Chapel -- fifteen minutes late, Nick notices -- is elbow Harry out of his chair so he can take his seat across from Nick, sit down, and look Nick directly in the eyes for a short but agonizing moment before demanding, “Who are you?”

Louis is small and pretty, but he has the air of something distinctly sharp about him, so all Nick manages to do is blink a bit dumbly at the question.

“This is Nick,” Harry says, plopping down next to Nick in the booth. Aimee raises an eyebrow at the lot of them, but doesn’t say anything.

“Nick who?” Louis asks.

“Grimshaw?” Nick doesn’t mean it to come out as a question, but this isn’t what he’d expected from the short bloke with the sleeves cut off his t-shirt and his hair fluffed around his head like a messy halo. It’s thrown him off his game.

“I don’t know you,” Louis says, making it sound like the very worst sort of crime.

“I don’t know you either,” Nick agrees.

“Hm. So are you the reason Hazza’s been unreachable for so long?” Louis asks, still staring at Nick in a very direct, very suspicious manner. He takes a long sip of his pint and doesn’t even break eye contact then. “None of us have heard anything from him for _weeks_. Thought he was dead.”

Nick tries hard not to splutter; beside him, Harry coughs conspicuously.

“‘M’not dead, Lou, c’mon,” he mumbles. Nick thinks he’s trying to sound put out, but he’s also grinning helplessly at Louis, and for a second Nick’s heart sinks, because it’s too real a reminder of just what he _will_ be stealing Harry away from eventually.

“Hm,” Louis says again, looking unconvinced despite the fact that he’s sitting across from Harry at the very moment, watching him talk and breathe in a way that dead people tend not to.

“My phone died, and I was in Manchester for a bit,” Harry explains. It’s close enough to the explanation they’ve settled on, at least. Nick can’t imagine that Harry’s mates are going to be corroborating this story with his mum, but he might be underestimating them. Particularly Louis.

“Your mum said,” Louis says, as if he’s read Nick’s mind. “Who were you visiting again?”

“Um. You don’t know him,” Harry hedges. “It was actually one of Nick’s mates.”

Louis squints at him, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Henry,” Nick supplies, offering the first name that pops into his mind, even though Henry lives nowhere near Manchester.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, nudging Nick in the thigh with his knuckles. “Henry.”

“Right. And how did you two meet?” Louis asks. He’s like a dog with a bone, if the dog was unusually tenacious. He obviously thinks something is off, but Nick decides he doesn’t care; let him be suspicious. He can’t prove anything.

“Dragged this one into Harry’s bakery,” Aimee offers when Harry takes too long to answer, nodding at Nick. “Needed a scone, and they hit it off straight away.”

“Cute,” Louis says. He looks at Nick and Harry very suspiciously for a long moment, but apparently he decides he’s finished interrogating them for the moment, because he sets all four legs of his chair firmly on the floor and nods his head once, apparently satisfied enough for now.

“Well,” he says, “glad Harry has a friend in town, then. Haz, c’mon and get another pint with me.” He stands without waiting for an answer, and Harry trails after him up to the bar.

Nick exhales heavily. “Christ.”

Aimee shrugs, and she has a dangerous sort of glint in her eyes. “I like that one. He’s spirited.”

“He’s like a bulldog,” Nick complains.

If he’s honest, though, he’s not at all upset that Harry has someone looking out for him so fiercely; it’s reassuring. Or at least it would be if Nick wasn’t on the receiving end of Louis’ inquisition.

Still, he has to grudgingly respect Louis’ dedication to ignoring niceties in the interest of protecting Harry. It’s an instinct Nick understands plenty.

The rest of the night carries on in much the same way. Louis asks a lot of probing questions, and seems dissatisfied by nearly all of Nick’s answers. But as unimpressed as he seems by Nick, he clearly loves Harry, even if he doesn’t stop taking the piss for an instant; when Harry sets his elbow in a puddle of vinegar from Louis’ chips and then pulls a frog face, Louis harps on it for a full fifteen minutes. Harry just preens under the attention, reeling an arm around Louis fondly until eventually he clamps a hand over his mouth to get him to shut up.

Louis might be a tiny terror, but he also seems to genuinely love Harry, so that’s good enough for Nick in the end.

He begs off eventually, because apparently he’s “very busy and in demand,” (which Harry later interprets to mean he’s watching his sisters for the night), but not before threatening to string Harry up by his toes if he avoids him like that again. Harry solemnly promises not to, and presses a kiss against Louis’ cheek before he goes.

“So,” Harry says as the three of them walk home shortly after. “That’s Louis.”

“He’s like a freight train, that one,” Nick says.

Harry grins, but it sits strange on his face. “He is,” he agrees fondly, like it’s the best thing anyone can be in the world. Maybe it is.

He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk home, though, a sort of forlorn air settling around him the further they get from the pub. When they finally get back to the flat, he hunches his shoulders up and says he’s going to turn in early, leaving Aimee and Nick holed up in her room so as not to disturb him once he flicks off the lights.

“So,” Aimee says, kicking her legs across Nick’s lap as they sprawl on her bed. She hasn’t bothered to take her shoes off, and her heel is very close to Nick’s delicate bits. “That’s an interesting turn of events, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Nick asks, and she makes a face at him like he’s missed something very obvious.

“Louis,” she says slowly.

“I mean, is it interesting that Harry has a bonkers mate?” Nick asks.

“It’s _interesting_ ,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to a five year old, “that Louis definitely isn’t all the way human.”

Nick blinks at her.

“Say again?”

She goggles at him. “Did you really not notice?”

He shrugs perplexedly at her, no idea what she means.

“He’s _definitely_ , like. Part pixie or something. Could you actually not feel the magic coming off him? It was like a fucking neon sign, Christ.”

“Huh,” Nick says slowly, frowning. “Part pixie?”

“Maybe some sort of nymph, I dunno. But he’s definitely not… y’know. Normal.” She squints at him. “Aren’t you the one who’s always going on about how you’re so much more supernatural than I am?”

“I was distracted!”

Aimee snorts. “Yeah. By Mr. Soulmate’s hand on your knee, maybe.”

Nick kicks her frantically. “Stop it with the soulmate thing, Jesus,” he whispers. “He might hear.”

Aimee’s eyes widen. “You still haven’t told him? For fuck’s sake, Nick. I figured while you were playing house in London it might come up.”

“I’m still working up to it,” he says evasively.

“That’s a cute way to justify lying by omission,” she says, unimpressed.

“Aims,” he says warningly. “I get it. But I need to do this carefully. He’s going to hate me when he finds out, and I just don’t want to make it worse yet. He’s already well fucked up over this whole thing, y’know?”

“Is he?” Aimee asks sharply. “‘Cuz as far as I can tell he seems to be taking it pretty fucking well, all things considered. You’re the one freaking out, Nick.”

“There’s plenty to _be_ freaked out over.”

“Okay,” she says, sighing. “But I just want to go on record and say I think you’re being a fucking idiot right now.”

“Noted,” he says sourly.

She sighs again, but then makes a softer, sympathetic face at him. “So do you want me to look into Louis, then? Figure out what his whole thing is?”

Nick considers. If Louis _is_ magical, somehow, then that changes everything -- Harry could _tell_ him. The rules are only for humans, which is how Aimee’s allowed to know without Nick getting booted off to Siberia. If Louis could know, and Harry wouldn’t have to leave him… Nick thinks of the sad slump to Harry’s shoulders after Louis’d left, and decides firmly that if there’s any way to stop that from happening ever again, he’ll figure it out. He’d have lost his marbles ages ago without Aimee knowing the truth; Harry deserves that same comfort at the very least.

“Please,” he says. “If Harry can tell him, that would be… yeah. Amazing.”

“Okay,” Aimee says, nodding with determination. Nick almost worries for Louis for an instant, because if it winds up Aimee was wrong -- not that that ever really happens, but _if_ \-- and he’s not magical, there’s a good chance she’ll drag him around another realm until he is just by association. She tends not to take no for an answer.

“Want to sleep in here?” she asks, kicking off her heels and rearranging herself on her bed, leaving space for Nick.

Nick doesn’t answer, just flops beside her and lets her cuddle him as his thoughts whir madly until he finally falls asleep.

-

“So there’s a thing,” Nick says a bit nervously one morning a week later.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, glancing up from his mug and a sudoku he’s doing wrong. He’s got three sixes in one box; Nick doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

“My niece is having a birthday,” he says instead. “Liv? And I told my parents I’d come for a long weekend, but, like.”

“No, I get it. I can stay here on my own?” Harry asks like he’s not sure, like he thinks Nick is going to boot him out, and Nick shakes his head.

“No, I mean. Did you want to come with?” Nick puts his hands in his pockets. “It’ll be dead boring if I have to go on my own, and anyway, I’m used to your face being around all the time.”

The second part is pathetically true, but even so, he’s not sure why he’s inviting Harry along at all, honestly, or why the idea of Harry saying no is so unsettling to him. Or, well -- he _knows_ , objectively. It’s probably a soulmate thing. The whole not wanting to be away from each other. It’s instinct, likely. But that doesn’t mean Nick has to _listen_ to the impulse that’s telling him to keep Harry as close as possible, that being apart from him for a long weekend would be doable, but probably not very much.

But apparently it does, because he’s still asking, and when Harry’s face lights up, Nick feels inordinately pleased.

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, clearly excited at the prospect.

“‘Course, yeah,” Nick says. He hopes it comes out somewhat normal.

“As long as I’m not intruding,” Harry says.

“Nah,” Nick assures him. That part’s definitely true -- his mum loves another body to fuss over, and even more when she doesn’t have to pretend she hasn’t got blood in her travel mug instead of tea.

“If you’re sure,” Harry says, grinning in a way that seems like he’s trying to stop himself and failing.

“Positive.”

-

Harry starts to fidget when they’re just arriving in Oldham, rearranging his legs and picking at his jeans before giving that up to tap nervously against the window.

“You alright?” Nick asks as he turns down the road to his house.

“Yeah, fine,” Harry says, smiling at him. “Just… kinda nervous. Don’t laugh.”

“They’re just Pete and Eileen,” Nick says, smiling despite himself. “They don’t, like. Sleep in coffins, or anything.”

Harry punches him uselessly in the knee. “I know. I just -- want them to like me.”

Nick’s heart does a somersault. He thinks about telling Harry how it’s pretty much impossible for anyone not to be instantly enamored with him upon sight, but that feels a bit too much like showing his hand.

“They’ll love you,” he promises, and tries not to let himself think about why the good opinion of Nick’s parents might matter so much to Harry. “They’ll have me off to the orphanage and adopt you in my place within the hour, probably.”

Harry laughs, but he stops tapping at the window. “Shut up,” he says fondly, smiling as Nick pulls up and parks the car.

-

Pete and Eileen do love Harry, of course. So does Liv, and Andy and Jane, and even his mum’s surly old cat who’s only ever spit and hiss at Nick curls up on Harry’s lap when they sit down to tea.

His mum corners him once they're settled, leaving Harry to watch the end of an Arsenal match with Nick’s dad while she pulls Nick into the kitchen. “This is the one?” she asks him.

Nick had warned her, briefly, on the phone before they’d come up, hiding outside on the curb in front of Aimee’s flat so Harry couldn’t overhear, but it’d been sketchy in detail at best. Nick would have to be very stupid to think she wouldn’t interrogate him further upon arrival, so he’s mostly ready, and tries to explain as best he can -- that he hadn’t planned to turn Harry, that things are still “a bit dodgy” with the whole soulmate thing, and begs his mum not to mention it, or make any grand proclamations about Harry like, calling her mum or anything.

“Just pretend he’s a normal friend,” he says eventually. “Like, that I’ve brought round to visit. Who also happens to drink blood. Please?”

Eileen purses her lips at him, but she nods. She must pass the message along, because no one says anything about soulmates or lifelong bonds or any of that, even if Jane does give Nick a very pointed look at dinner when Harry’s hand rests on the back of Nick’s chair for a moment. He shrugs as minutely as he can, trying to threaten Jane with his eyes. He’s not sure if it comes across. When he looks over at Harry, he’s laughing at something Olivia’s saying, but he glances up to catch Nick’s eye, and smiles just for him.

-

“Your family is really, really lovely,” Harry tells Nick that night as they’re tucked into a corner of the sofa, drinking Nick’s mum’s old sherry and watching a repeat of Coronation Street. Everyone else has slouched off to bed, and it’s cozy and dark in the lounge, homey in a way that makes Nick feel warm from the inside out.

“They like you better than me, I told you,” Nick says. He’s only a bit tipsy, and too warm, and Harry’s snuggled up against him, and for a second he pretends -- he pretends they’re in love, and that things aren’t all cocked up, and that Harry won’t wind up hating him when he finds out the truth: that Nick is a bit old and pathetic and that he’s stuck with him despite all that.

“Well, I like you best,” Harry says nonsensically, nosing his way under Nick’s chin.

“You have crap taste, then,” Nick says, smiling a bit helplessly.

“Hey,” Harry protests. He tilts his head up, grinning at Nick, and then rearranges himself a bit until his face is just an inch from Nick’s.

“Nick,” he says softly. The fire Nick’s dad had lit earlier has burned down and it’s lighting Harry up in relief so that he looks a bit angelic, and the house smells like cinnamon and spice, and when Harry leans in to kiss him, Nick only lets himself kiss back and keep pretending for a moment -- maybe two -- before he forces himself to pull away.

“Harry,” he says, trying to sound gentle. He doesn’t move back very far, though, can’t quite bring himself to do it. He’s stopped kissing Harry him, at least. That ought to be enough.

“I know,” Harry says, smiling almost apologetically and retreating a bit. “Got the message in London. I just… wanted to try again. Just in case.”

“It’s not you,” Nick says, pathetically. “It’s just… everything. You’re too important, and I just -- I don’t want to muck this up.”

“I get it,” Harry says. He sounds like he _does_ , which is mad, because Nick scarcely gets it himself. “It’s okay, Nick.” Harry squeezes his wrist

“Haz,” Nick says again, not sure what he means by it.

“Shut up,” Harry says, finding his place against Nick’s shoulder again and nodding at the television. He doesn’t sound upset, or embarrassed, or any of the things Nick would if the situation was reversed. He just sounds like Harry, content to watch shit television on the couch with Nick like always. “We’re watching this bit, okay?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, curling an arm around Harry and squeezing briefly. “Okay.”

Harry falls asleep against him, later, but Nick doesn’t have the heart to move him, so they stay until eventually Nick dozes off too.

-

Harry gets roped into a footie game in the back garden the next afternoon with Liv and Andy, Pete and Jane overseeing it. As far as Nick can tell, it mostly involves Harry falling down a lot and Liv laughing in his face, but Harry’s smiling and a bit sweaty and Liv is relishing in her triumph over him, so on the whole it seems like a success.

Nick watches them out the back window for a while, feeling a bit creepy for it, and then makes it a point to let go of the curtains and find something less weird to do. He settles for warming two mugs up for him and his mum before helping her fold the wash, and she at least waits until they’re on the last of the spare towels before she gives him that look that means she’s about to say something.

“So,” she says. “Harry.”

“Mum,” he groans without any particular heat, flopping down across the sofa and a pile of flannels he’s just folded.

“I know, but I’m going to say it anyway,” she says, only laughing at him a bit. Nick moans into the laundry.

“He’s lovely, Nick,” his mum says. “Really lovely. I’m so pleased for you, dear. We’d all… well, never mind. You just never seemed much interested in settling down, and that’s alright, there’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s hard for a mum not to worry, you know? But now you’ve got Harry, and. Well. He’s lovely.”

“Mum,” he says again, managing to at least sit up properly. She _does_ sound pleased, inordinately so, and that makes it almost worst. “It’s not… like that, okay?”

“It is, though, love,” she says sympathetically. “It might take you some time to get there, but that’s how it works when you turn someone. They’re your soulmate.”

“I know,” Nick says pathetically. “Like, technically that it’s true. But _we_ aren’t… I dunno. I just don’t know how to tell him.”

“I think you just budge up and do it,” his mum says, stroking his hand. “Like a mature, thoughtful, kind person. Which you are, by the way, no matter how hard you try to pretend you aren’t.”

Nick whines. “Can’t I just, like. Hire someone to do it? While I’m out of the country?”

“Probably not the best way to start out a lifelong bond with someone, running away overseas,” his mum says, laughing a bit. Nick can’t help but snort.

“I know.”

“I don’t mean to lecture, anyway. But you do have to tell him soon,” she says, pulling him into a hug.

“I know that too.” 

“Well. Good.” She hugs him for a while, the only sound the ticking clock over the mantel, and then says thoughtfully, “He is quite fit, isn’t it? Not a bad choice for a soulmate, I reckon.”

“ _Mum_.”

He’s gearing up to make a big show out of pretending to be sick, but he’s interrupted from a thump from the doorway behind him, and his stomach drops when he hears a voice say “Um,” very quietly.

It’s Harry. Of course it is.

“Sorry,” Harry says, face twisted up in confusion, frowning a bit. “I didn’t mean to… Olivia wanted to know when’s lunch?”

“Of course,” his mum says, standing and excusing herself. “In just a moment. I’ll go and fetch the others.”

She bustles out, and then it’s just Nick and Harry, the silence around them almost palpable.

“Um,” Nick finally says, feeling a bit light-headed. “How much of that did you hear?”

Harry huffs out a breath through his nose. “The, uh. The bit about. Soulmates.” He bites his lip. He’s still frowning at the ground.

Then he’s gone, disappearing down the hall towards the guest bedroom where he’d slept the rest of the night after they’d woken up together on the sofa in the lounge at half three, the door shutting softly behind him a moment later.

Nick knows he needs to go after him, find a way to explain and make it better, but it’s a long time before he can manage.

He half expects Harry not to answer when he finally knocks, but he does, silently moving aside so Nick can step inside. Harry sits down on the bed, and Nick’s left standing in front of him uselessly. He has no idea how to start.

“So,” Harry says eventually, frowning at his hands. His mouth is tense, twisted up in confusion and something a bit hurt. “I get the impression you didn’t tell me something.”

Nick exhales. “Yeah. So. That’s sort of the other part of being turned?”

“I need you to explain it to me,” Harry says carefully. “Because I don’t get it.”

Nick sighs, casting around the room a bit uselessly. “It’s like. It’s this bond thing. We can only turn one person, like, um. Ever.”

Harry is still looking at his hands, so Nick takes a steadying breath and carries on.

“It’s got to do with, like, population control, partially. So we don’t go around making like, vampire armies. But it’s also because… I guess being basically immortal and living for centuries can get lonely. So it helps to have someone who’s like, your…”

“Soulmate,” Harry finishes for him.

“Basically,” Nick agrees. “We, um. We bond for life, which is a really long time, and you’re meant to like, take care of each other. Love each other, I guess.”

There’s a very long moment, Harry still staring at his hands looking very still and sad. Nick doesn’t know what to do in this situation, so he just stands there uselessly, hoping Harry will do something so he can follow his lead.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asks, finally looking up at him.

A million reason -- all true enough -- come to mind, but when he tries to put them to words, Nick finds he can’t. They all sound weak, when he tries, like exactly what they are -- excuses. He shrugs instead.

“D’you know,” Harry starts after a long moment, his eyebrows still drawn together unhappily. “D’you know what the scariest part of you turning me has been? Not the blood or fangs or anything. It’s thinking about how I’m going to have to leave everyone I love, eventually. I mean -- I’m still glad, Nick, okay, I’d rather this than being bloody _dead_ , but thinking about how my family can’t know? That’s… you can’t understand that. And then I thought, okay, well, I’ve got Nick for now, at least, but eventually he’ll get tired of me hanging around, and then what? I’ll be completely on my own? That’s…” He doesn’t even finish the thought, and when he continues, his voice is thick. “And apparently I didn’t need to be worrying about that, because turns out I’ve got a soulmate -- I’ve got _you_ , only you _didn’t bother to tell me_. How am I supposed to feel about that?”

“Harry,” Nick says sadly. “I’m sorry, alright? I just… I couldn’t imagine you being very pleased to find out, y’know? Like, I should’ve told you as soon as you woke up, but what was I supposed to do? Say hey, by the way, you’re a vampire and also I’m your soulmate, surprise?”

“Yes,” Harry says, sounding hurt. “You should’ve told me because it’s _important_ , even if maybe it wasn’t easy.”

“I know,” Nick says hollowly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m -- I’m gonna go, I think,” Harry says, standing abruptly. His bag is at his feet, and he starts carelessly throwing his clothes -- _Nick’s_ clothes, Jesus -- into it. Nick can’t manage to say anything, just stands there like a lump watching as Harry shoves a last jumper in and zips the bag. Nick feels a bit like he’s about to fall apart, and he knows he should say something, but he can’t. Harry stands up

“Um. Tell your family I’m sorry I had to leave, please?”

“I will,” Nick says, standing aside so Harry can get through the door. “I’m… I’m really sorry, Harry,” he says one last time.

Harry makes a soft, sad face at him, and shakes his head. “I know. I just… I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

And then he’s gone, just like Nick figured he would be once he found out. Harry knows, and now he’s gone, and Nick’s alone on the bed in his parents’ guest room that’s still rumpled from Harry sleeping there the night before.

He looks out the window, eventually, startled by the sound of a car door shutting, just in time to see Harry climb into a cab and disappear around the bend. Nick watches, and then lets the curtains fall shut again and sits carefully on the bed. It smells like Harry.

Nick stays there for a long time.

-

He means to stay the rest of the weekend, but when he finally comes downstairs, everyone’s conspicuously not mentioning the fact that Harry’s disappeared and simultaneously being so _gentle_ with Nick that he can’t stand it. He stays through that night, because it’s Liv’s birthday still, but packs up and drives home the next morning before the sun’s even up properly.

Harry’s not at the flat when Nick gets there. Not that Nick had expected him to be, honestly, but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to text Harry -- not even to ask _where are you, are you okay_? -- so he’d been hoping, at least. But Aimee hasn’t seen him, and Nick can tell she wants to say something when it becomes clear that Nick’s misplaced him, but his face must discourage her, because she lets it go.

“He knows,” he explains to her later, curled up in her bed. “He overheard me. Or, he overheard Eileen, rather.”

“About -- the soulmate thing?” Aimee asks carefully, and Nick nods morosely.

“And he left?”

He nods again.

“Oh, Nick,” she says, gentle and frustrated sounding all at once.

“I know,” he mumbles, staring at his knees. He does. He knows.

-

He sends Harry a text, eventually, even though it means Aimee has to do some weird spell to get his number because hilariously, Nick doesn’t have it. He’s never had a reason to need it before.

 _staying w lou_ is all Harry says, and then radio silence.

Nick’s busy moping and watching Aimee work a hex a week later when there’s a knock on the door. Nick’s heart kicks up immediately at the sound before he can help himself. It’s just -- they’ve really only had one visitor round, and Nick knows he shouldn’t hope, but he does, he hopes desperately that it’s Harry.

When he pulls open the door, though, Nick stops short.

“Hello, Count Dracula,” Louis says, smiling at him from the doorway in a very alarming way. “You upset Harry, so I’ve come to murder you.”

Nick pulls a worried face. He wouldn’t put it past Louis to try, honestly.

“Or shout at you until you fix it,” Louis amends, shouldering his way into the flat and leaving Nick to trail along behind him into the kitchen a bit dumbly. “Hiya, Aimee.”

“Louis,” Aimee nods at him, and then gathers up her tea and retreats into her bedroom. Nick’s not sure what to make of _that_ , the two of them apparently getting chummy, but he supposes that explains why Louis is currently in his flat, apparently about to lecture him for turning his best mate into a vampire. Louis sprawls in one of the chairs easily, clearly making himself at home.

“Um,” Nick starts, unsure of what to do on even the most basic level.

“First you should make me some tea,” Louis says helpfully, keeping an unimpressed look schooled on his face. “And then we’re going to fix it.”

He says it with such authority that all Nick can do is nod and start the kettle.

-

“So he’s all right?”

“He’s not trying to drown in any more rivers, if that’s what you’re asking,” Louis says. He’s peering skeptically into his tea, like he doesn’t trust that Nick hasn’t sneaked any blood into it even though he’d watched him like a hawk the entire time Nick made it.

“That’s good, then.”

“Yeah, except he’s a fucking wreck besides that.” Louis shrugs. “He thinks everything ruined, now, and that you hate him. Frankly, I don’t know why he cares, but he’s moping and sighing all the time. His face does this thing when he cries…” Louis squinches his face up unattractively, apparently trying to mimic it, but Nick’s too stuck on the idea of Harry crying to notice properly.

“I don’t hate him,” he says quietly. “He can’t really fucking think that, can he? I--”

“You love him, he loves you, blah blah, it’s all very gross,” Louis says, waving a hand uninterestedly. “So sort it out so he’s not sad anymore.”

“He doesn’t love me, though,” Nick says sadly.

Louis rolls his eyes. “That’s not what he says.”

“Maybe he _thinks_ he does, but he can’t, alright?” Nick bites back the rest of the question -- _and why would he?_ \-- only because he’s pretty sure he can guess that Louis would only agree that Nick’s washed up and a bit pathetic and not worth Harry in the slightest. “The second I bit him, everything got all fucked up. If he thinks he loves me, it’s only because me turning him’s making him. Like, complimentary gift of weird involuntary soul bond with every purchase of vampirism.” He laughs bitterly.

Louis blinks at him like he’s incredibly stupid for a long moment. “You really are crap at being a vampire,” he says finally. “D’you have any idea how that type of bond even works?”

Nick scowls. “Do _you_?”

“I know everything,” Louis says imperiously. “And I happen to know that you’ve got it all arse-backwards. You don’t bite someone and they magically become your soulmate, alright? You bite them because they already _are_.”

Nick opens his mouth, but finds he doesn’t actually know what to say to that, so he closes it again.

“Why do you think you were here in the first place?” Louis asks. “Like, in Holmes Chapel? Is that a coincidence, do you think, that you _happened_ to be in the middle of bloody nowhere, in the middle of the blood _woods_ right when Harry needed someone to save him?”

“Stranger things,” Nick says weakly, his mind whirring. It’s… it doesn’t _seem_ like an enormous difference on the surface, really, when Harry and him started being bonded, but maybe it _is_. 

“Why do you think you turned _him_ and no one else?” Louis carries on. “Because you were already fucking soulmates, that’s why. That would’ve been true even if you’d left him to die.” The words make Nick wince. “So be grateful that you’ve got him, alright? Stop being so dramatic like you’ve brought on the bleeding apocalypse by keeping my best mate from dying and getting to find your soulmate in the bargain.”

Nick sighs heavily and sets his forehead on the table. “But--”

“My point is,” Louis continues over him, clearly ignoring Nick’s despair, “is that the two of you had something even before you fished him out of a river and went all pointy-bitey on him. And if you want to be a prat about it and spend a century pretending otherwise and being a miserable twat about it, fine, whatever. I’ll have to throttle you, because it’ll make Harry miserable too, but that’s your decision. But you’ve got a soulmate who’s fucking mad about you, and worth about a hundred of you, just so you know, and you’re turning your nose up at it because -- what, it’s too good? Everything worked out _too well_?”

“I--” Nick starts, but then he can’t think of anything to finish the thought.

“This is the part where you say ‘I’ve been an idiot’ and go fix it,” Louis says helpfully, prodding Nick sharply until he picks his head up.

“Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot,” Nick moans.

Louis pats him very hard on the shoulder in a not entirely sympathetic way. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

-

Louis promises to return Harry the next day, like he’s a pie tin or something. Privately, Nick isn’t sure he’ll be successful, even if it feels a bit unwise to bet against Louis’ powers of persuasion. Still, despite what Louis had said -- that Harry _loves_ him, Jesus -- Nick can’t really fathom that being enough for Harry to forgive him.

He still sends Aimee away and spends most of the morning frantically tidying the flat, just in case. He washes all his mugs that have been piling in the sink, plus Aimee’s dishes, and then wipes the counters down with such a frenzy that his arm starts to ache. When the kitchen is finished he moves to the lounge, desperate to find something that he can straighten, that he can _fix_. He knows it’s silly. Even _if_ Harry shows up, he probably won’t care which end of the sofa the gray afghan is folded over, but that doesn’t stop Nick from moving it back and forth three times, and then artfully re-draping it twice once he settles on the right side.

In the end, he works himself up into such a frenzy that he falls asleep on the sofa in the early afternoon. When he wakes, Harry is sitting on the edge of the coffee table, staring at Nick.

Nick smiles instinctively, sleepy and cozy in the moment before he realizes what’s going on, and then jolts out of it.

“Christ,” he says, trying to shove himself upright and pressing a hand to his chest. “Give a man a bleedin’ heart attack, Styles.”

“Sorry,” Harry says mildly, the corner of his mouth turning up into almost a smile. It doesn’t quite reach, though, hits somewhere around unsure. He’s still so beautiful it makes Nick’s pulse swoop.

“Don’t be,” Nick says, blinking his eyes hard and trying to smooth out his shirt. “I owe _you_ an apology. Like, loads of them.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Go on with them, then.”

He doesn’t look _angry_ , which is probably a good sign, but there’s an unhappy pall to his face all the same that makes Nick nervous. What if Harry says _no, not good enough_ and that’s it? He leaves and Nick’s alone again?

“I should’ve told you,” Nick says, exhaling. His hands twist nervously around each other. “About -- everything, God. I feel like a shit. For lying. For, like. Everything, basically.”

“You were only a shit for lying,” Harry says. “The rest of it… I’m not mad about that, Nick, do you understand that?”

Nick can’t help himself from scoffing disbelievingly, and Harry’s face crinkles up into a frown.

“Why are you acting like this is all so awful?” he asks. “Everything that’s happened between us?”

“Because it is!” Nick says, and then immediately regrets in when Harry blanches. “I mean -- not for me, Christ, but for _you_. I just -- I feel like I should be apologizing constantly, right? I mean, I’ve basically ruined your life, right, first I make you into a vampire and then, oh yeah, by the way, you’re saddled with me for eternity! Surprise!” He can hear himself getting a bit hysterical, but he can’t stop. “It’s -- how’s that fair to you, Harry? Just… taking away all your choice like that?”

Harry blinks at him. “That’s what you’re doing right now, though, isn’t it?” he asks slowly. “I _like_ you, Nick, and I’m happy I’m with you rather than dead in a fucking ditch, alright? Fuck, I’m happy with you in _general_ , vampire shit aside. Only I don’t think you believe me. And if I’m your soulmate, fine. _Good_. I’m happy about that too. I really fucking _like_ you, ignoring all the rest of it, and maybe you didn’t notice me trying to kiss you, like, more than once, but that was before I knew anything about the whole bonding for life deal. So don’t try and pin it on that, like I was just doing it because I had to. Because I didn’t know, and I wanted to anyway.”

“Just because you didn’t know, though…”

“If you want me to feel like I have a choice,” Harry interrupts, “then _listen to me_ when I’m saying this: I would choose you. I _do_ choose you.”

“But--”

“Nick,” Harry interrupts, leaning forward. His legs are so _long_ , and when he reaches over and puts a hand on top of Nick’s where they’re fidgeting, he forgets what he was going to say entirely.

“I’m happy,” Harry says slowly, looking at Nick very directly. It’s disorienting, having the full brunt of Harry’s attention on him, so much so that Nick almost forgets to feel despairing about this possibly working out.

“I’m happy like this,” Harry repeats. “And I want to be with you, and I need you to believe me when I say that. I need you to stop acting like I don’t get a say in this, and it’s only down to whatever mountain you’ve made this into in your mind.”

His hand is still so warm. Nick nods.

“You have to tell me what you’re thinking,” Harry prompts him.

“I’m thinking I should keep apologizing, because I don’t deserve you.” Nick’s surprised, for a moment, by the honesty of his answer.

“You already apologized,” Harry says. His smile is a bit more sure now. He still hasn’t moved his hand away, and now his thumb is rubbing a gentle circle on the bone of Nick’s wrist.

“Well, let me keep doing it for a minute anyway,” he says. “I… I won’t say I’m sorry I turned you in the first place, but I’m at least sorry your vampire soulmate turned out to be so shit at it. You deserve a much better one.”

Harry breathes out a laugh. “I like the one I’ve got fine, thanks.”

“Even when he’s being an awful tit?” Nick asks, and Harry laughs again. Nick thinks if he can keep doing that for the rest of their lives, making Harry laugh, things will probably work out alright.

“Even then. Just don’t keep anymore big secrets, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nick says. “Promise.”

“Gonna kiss you now,” Harry says, leaning closer. He goes slow, like he’s giving Nick the chance to escape if he needs to, but he doesn’t. He stays just there, and Harry kisses him.

It nearly makes the moment Nick had turned Harry seem mundane, in comparison. There’s not a jolt, there’s not a desperate fear, there’s not anything like that at all, but there’s Harry, kissing him, one hand soft on Nick’s jaw, and suddenly everything makes sense.

“Jesus,” Nick breathes when Harry finally pulls away. Christ, if this is what he’d been stopping Harry doing the times he’d tried to kiss him, he’s been a fucking idiot. But then, maybe this was the way it had to go -- maybe they had to get it all out in the open to get it right.

“Been wanting to do that for ages,” Harry murmurs, leaning back in to press another kiss against Nick’s mouth. “Thanks for finally letting me.”

“Better do it again,” Nick says hoarsely. “Y’know. Make up for lost time.”

Harry smiles at him then, properly, and kisses him so hard they nearly topple off the sofa.

Harry’s mouth is warm and sweet and it’s only moments before Nick’s almost out of his mind with it, how good it feels to have Harry under his hands, his hands in Nick’s hair, the only thing Nick can focus on.

When Harry pulls away and stands, Nick’s sure he moans pathetically at the loss, but then Harry grabs him by the hand and yanks him down the hall to his curtained-off bedroom, and Nick whines again, but for a different reason.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Harry nearly whispers, kissing him again as they come to the edge of Nick’s bed.

“You’ll get tired of me,” Nick says, kissing Harry harder.

“Probably not,” Harry knocks him back against the mattress. Nick’s knees buckle and he sits hard, and Harry just clambers astride him, knees on either side of Nick’s hips.

“And if you do?” Nick asks. He feels like a twit, having a crisis -- of the _oh God what if my soulmate finds out just how shit I am_ variety especially -- with this fit of a boy in his lap, but the thing is, he really, desperately wants this to work out. He can’t figure out what Harry sees in him besides obligation, but it must be something, the way Harry’s squirming around on top of him and licking into Nick’s mouth and trailing a hand under the hem of his shirt.

“Then we’ll sort it out,” Harry all but pants, moving down to kiss at the juncture of Nick’s neck. It sends his whole right side up in gooseflesh in the best way. “I reckon we’ll be good at sorting things out, being soulmates and all.”

That’s -- actually a really good point. Or maybe it’s not and Nick’s brain is just functioning at well below capacity because Harry’s hands are working on his belt buckle.

He decides that for now, though, this is enough. For now, Harry wants him, and fuck does he want Harry back. They can figure the rest of it out as it comes.

Nick lies back on the bed, bringing Harry with him, and breathes out.

If he’d had any doubts about it, they fly out the window as Harry sheds his clothes, pulling Nick out of his own in turn. Harry’s so gorgeous that Nick forgets to feel self-conscious at all, too busy sparking at the thrill of having Harry look at him like he’s something good, something precious, something that he _wants_. Harry’s hands are slow and deliberate as they drag up Nick’s sides, scratch softly at his bicep and trail inside his thighs. Harry glances up at him every few moments as he shifts down the bed until he’s kneeling between Nick’s legs.

It goes a bit hazy, after that. Nick’s had plenty of sex in his life, but soulmate sex is entirely something else. Harry still fumbles a bit as he fingers Nick open, a look of nervousness like he isn’t sure if he’s doing it right, but Nick feels so good that it just barely registers. It’s not just Harry’s long fingers inside him, or the way his hands slowly press Nick’s legs open when he finally lines up to push inside him. It’s Harry entirely, all of him, the flop of his long hair over his eyes and the way he bites his lip and whimpers when he’s fucked entirely into Nick, staying there for a long moment before moving. It’s Harry -- it’s all Harry.

Harry’s nails dig into his hip just a bit as his thrusts go erratic, and then he’s folding in half and breathing hotly against Nick’s collarbones as he comes. He lets out a quiet whimper, and Nick can’t help himself from wrapping his arms around him, holding him there. Harry’s inside him, still, and Nick wants him even closer.

Harry pulls out, eventually, and Nick has to remind himself that it’s alright, that they can do this again -- they can do this again in twenty minutes, if his cock cooperates -- but he still whines until Harry wraps himself around him like an octopus, his hand big and steady on Nick’s cock as he strokes him off until he comes on a wheezy breath, too full up with _something_ to put words to it. He just clings tighter to Harry.

-

Harry gets down on his knees in the shower an hour later to suck Nick off, and for a moment Nick wonders if this whole soulmate thing is going to kill him, because Harry’s _his_ , and he’s Harry’s, and Jesus does it all send Nick’s heart beating too hard.

When Nick comes, Harry wanks himself off knelt at his feet.

Later, when they’re curled up in Nick’s bed again, Harry petting his hair with both legs twisted around Nick, he apologizes again. He doesn’t mean to, but it slips out anyway.

“Stop it,” Harry frowns, swatting at Nick’s stomach lightly. “You said sorry. I forgive you. Let’s be done with it, please.”

Nick hums, and laces his fingers with Harry’s.

“This is good,” Harry promises after a moment, pressing a kiss to Nick’s collarbone. “Us, everything, it’s so good. We can -- we can do anything we want, y’know? Jesus.”

Nick considers it. Suddenly it sounds a lot less daunting, having a whole world open to him, since he’s got Harry to help him sort it out now. “I guess. What d’ _you_ want to do?”

Harry puffs out his cheeks and sighs. “Everything? Wanna -- wanna go back to London, and I want to travel, and I want you to start DJing again so I can some see you--”

Nick makes a protesting noise, but Harry just kicks him in the shin. “Shut up, let me finish. So I can come see you at, like, a club or something, doing something you love, and then suck you off in a public toilet afterward. Could you suffer through that for me, do you think?”

He smiles cheekily up at Nick, and for a second Nick realizes he must know how firmly he’s got Nick wrapped around his finger. Nick doesn’t find he minds.

“I’ll consider it,” he concedes.

“Good,” Harry says, snuggling closer again. “Anyway. Where was I? I want Aimee to teach me the spell she had the other week, about, like, wildflowers? And I also want to go see things that aren’t Aimee’s flat, and I want to shout at Louis for about a hundred years for not telling me he’s a bleeding supernatural being, and I want to get a dog, probably, and I want... “ He trails off, and runs his hand over Nick’s stomach again. “I want to be with you. While we do all that. So.”

“So,” Nick agrees.

“Does that sound alright?” Harry asks, suddenly not sounding quite as sure as he had a moment ago.

“Love,” Nick says, unable to help how soft and soppy his voice goes. “Of course it does.”

It _does_. It also sounds a bit terrifying, and it means hoisting himself out of the happy little rut he’s built for himself, but suddenly that sounds terrifying in the best sort of way.

“I can’t wait,” he promises. “But we have to do something first, though, okay? For me.”

“Does it involve your dick?” Harry asks hopefully. Nick swats his hand away where it’s creeping towards his hip.

“No, you sex pest, stop it.”

“Alright,” Harry says. “What?”

“Gotta go see you mum, love,” Nick says softly. “She… she at least deserves to have you while she can. Okay?”

Harry sighs. “I know. Yeah, I… I know. It’s just scary, right?”

“Petrifying,” Nick agrees, even if he doesn’t have any particular experience in the area. “But… we’ll figure it out, okay? I promise.”

“Okay,” Harry says, nodding against Nick’s chest. “And you’ll be there, right? You’ll come with me?”

“‘Course,” Nick says, nosing against Harry’s hair. “Gonna be well sick of me when this is all over, I bet.”

Harry smiles up at him, then, and it’s real; it reaches the corners of his eyes, and everything else sort of drifts away. “I won’t,” he promises.

“Good,” Nick says, tightening his arms around him. “Neither of us is going anywhere, then.”


End file.
